a/n- This is sooo weird. And kinda terrible. The whole thing was inspired by a friend that used this pairing; she doesn't even know it (her fic is called a wolf in sheep's clothing, methinks.). This is kind of a drabble, but not. I really don't know. Try to enjoy?
pairing- Damon/Caroline
disclaimer- Disclaimed.
warnings- This is quite sketchy with some sexual stuff and language. If you think the rating should rise, just say so.
the red streaks on his collarbone
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She sits under elusive, bouncing rays of sunshine and wishes for the heat to soak through her and make her feel wonderful like it used to when she was human. She sets her head back, and soaks in the euphoric memories of the sun, until she can almost feel the calming waves against her face; the thrum of the town's people blood is just a tickle on her tongue now. She sighs into the listless whistle of the wind, slender neck elongated, flaxen curls twirling in the wind, vitalizing her finicky conscience and useless ponderings of love.
"What're you looking at?" An arrogant voice steams its way among her limbs; it warms her belly, swells her breasts, and makes her utterly despise her heightened bouts of sexual tension. She hates him sometimes. Other times she wants to fuck him, but most of the time she just wants him away from her, so she can resist both urges.
She says, plainly, "For you to get out of my sunlight."
He studies her with a strange look, momentary surprise surpassing his haughty features. And then he walks away, leaving her a bit puzzled at his compliance.
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She pushes Tyler against her ugly, baby pink wall, and dutifully shoves her mouth against his, in their accustomed let's make it rough again monotony. He's undeniably attractive (or hot- but does she really have to use such terms now? It's not like she fits in anyway.); he makes her want sex so badly that her body trembles with the agony of its absence, and the little tidbit of him being a werewolf drives her mad (ruff.). He has the satisfaction she clings to, but he doesn't have any emotional appeal, and as her body mechanically thrusts against his, and his groans echo in her subconscious, she thinks of this, and moans in an unbridled, tumultuous rush, the unwanted dominance she possesses saddening her.
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She's always been an outcast, really. Her family doesn't like her that much; apparently, her chattering and ranting are too damn overwhelming and her parents need to get a hold on such a stubborn child.
Her dad turns out to be gay. She used to ask her mother- how bad was I to make daddy not like me and like boys instead? Her mother's eyes would crinkle around the edges, and her lips would purse into an expression only attractive to her ever-adoring daughter.
"He loves you," her mother would mumble. She stopped asking after a while, because this reply always bothered her, and sent inexplicable tears down her face and into her adolescent pillow one too many times.
Her cousins threw rocks at her when she was younger, and called her a whore (are you trying to make us incestuous?), because she wore clothing a little bit too short, and liked to adorn herself with a bountiful supply of make-up.
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In the dark, she cowers. The mirror reflects a girl with beautiful blond curls, creamy skin, and a bow-shaped mouth the shade of a faded mauve tone, but there pops up a monster (Run for your lives, I tell you, run!) with crooked, streaky lines under the eyes and pupils a harsh mix of deep violet and fiery red. She sobs when she has no tears to cry, but she forces them out anyway; maybe she won't cry when she needs to- maybe she's won't be so weak anymore. (Raindrops don't fall on that guitar.)
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She likes the forbidden. His hair can be auburn, she realizes. But she thinks that it's more around the acorn shade. Not a bad color, but it could definitely do with some coloring. His body, however, needs no tweaking. She licks her salivating mouth, wanting so damn badly to give into the aching, permeating her womanly parts; her breathing (She lives! Let's shriek, darlings!) is rapid, and the warmth of her breath, the rasping, the heat, draws her to him. (He's taken, dear.)
"Caroline.. What are you doing?" Elena, dark hair draw around permanently melancholy features, and eyes a blank, albeit worried shade of chocolate, gazes interestedly at her.
She smiles, because she's Elena's bitch, and this is merely a segment of the typical pecking order, "Stefan must have just eaten. I smell blood," she flings her head to the side in a I'm so hot and clueless right now kind of way.
Elena sends uneasily curious pinpricks through her, "Ok. Well, you had better go then. Don't you have a thing with your dad later on?"
"No. He canceled," she says this blankly, attempting to keep the harsh, biting edge out of her voice. (Come onnnnn, Caroline, can't we bite just once?)
She walks out.
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The Salvatore mansion is grand. Just deliciously, wonderfully, brilliantly grand.
Damon (of course) opens the door, "What. Is. Up? Certainly my hormone levels, but besides-"
"The economy, jackass," she smartly retorts. "Is Stefan here?"
"Well, last time I checked, he was in the neighborhood, but I'm sorry to say that our Highness is not honoring us with his presence today," Damon proclaims, eyes narrowing, "what are your intentions with my brother, Blondie? You don't think that he would actually-"
"I don't really care what you think, Damon," she snarls (so unpretty these days!), stomping away.
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She likes the ocean. When she obtains the rare opportunity, she drives to the seaside off the east coast, and slips into the water, baring herself of all clothes (to hump something, perhaps?). She observes the sharp, acute rims of the deep blue waves, and pokes her fingers across the rolling surface. Her body goes limp, and she rolls with the rhythm (bawlin'), and lets the water flow its salty stream into her agape mouth and rest on her tongue, a taste she strangely has a fondness for.
Her mind will sometimes become peacefully blank, but other times, she sees gray and blue, all types of blue, and red, especially red. It's thick even in her inner eye; bloodlust will arise when this occurs, and she has to dip her head into the water to try and tame it.
Phantom hands will occasionally caress her skin, and she tries to convince herself that it's just her mind's way of making her feel pretty and wanted. She doesn't open her eyes when this happens, because she doesn't want to see who the phantom hands belong to. She wants the phantom figure to remain a mystery.
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She plays with the old Barbies that had long ago been shoved under her bed when her first boyfriend had sneaked into her room (You always remember the first hell-ish time.). And she makes them kiss each other. One has dark hair. One has blond hair. Sometimes she becomes aroused, and will yell for them to fuck each other, because she certainly can't make them do it. She'll even take off the rough fabric, and attempt some vulgar motions with the little figures, but it never helps with the frustration. Sometimes, she just dissolves into tears; other times, she drives (vrrooooom, goes the Porsche) to Tyler's, and demands for him to fuck her, because she isn't inclined on doing it herself. His black eyes darken to obsidian, and without hesitation, his flaming body melts unto hers. She always dies a little when she does this.
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She likes torture, as the idea of "cutting" is intriguing to her indecipherable mind. She breaks pencils into organized pieces and puts them in her modest, pink pencil box, so when she's feeling all darn depressed and pms-y and hot n' sweaty, she takes one of these and punctures her small, slender wrist (how pretty!). She does this when no one is around, because her screams would attract attention, and she doesn't want that. She blares her music and locks her door, and sings and sings and sings, until her voice hoarsens to the monotonous, grinding beat, and her eyes close in nostalgia. She licks her leaking wrists, and plucks the wooden shards out of each and every vein, moaning in pain all the way (Feel that).
She's not careful enough. Elena knocks on her door one day, so as normality calls, she answers.
"Hey, Elena-"
"Stop these games, Care. Stefan's mine," this harsh statement is spit into her face.
"What happened to talking things out? Where's sensitive Elena?" She cries spitefully.
"She's left town."
She slams into her house and roars at her fucked-up life (dancing along the walls; let's dance, dance, dance, dance), until her eyes find the pinkly painful solution. She doesn't notice her phone's consistent ringing, nor the car that slides into her driveway, as she begins her torturous process.
Her hard metal blasts through her impenetrable eardrums, and her ragged locks of hair dip into blood; she laughs out loud (lol. Lol. Get it? L.O.L.). "Is this real life?" She sings into the thick air.
"The hell, Caroline?" Damon. Damon Salvatore. In her doorway? She laughs and laughs and laughs and blearily watches his coolly set features convert into a faint stage of horror. Blood drips off her wrists, and she readily offers this to him.
"Want some?"
"No," he distastefully replies, icy gaze tearing her apart. She suddenly throws her blood-strewn arms around him, and cuddles her head into a comfortable position in his neck. His throat clears.
"What are you doing here?" She murmurs, feeling a slight bit delusional.
"Apparently, saving you from this," he says clearly.
"But I'm ok; and I have my Barbies!"
He pushes her away, head turned inquisitively, "Why are you doing this to yourself?"
"Doing what?" She so innocently inquires, baby blues blinking sardonically from beneath thick, moist lashes.
"Why, Caroline?" His tone is serious, his eyes a block of cold, hard metal, and she sighs in disgust, before plopping lazily on her bed, and replying-
"Because I'm in love, dickhead."
This moment stretches on forever, it seems. His eyes widen for just a moment, but with her ever-aware gaze she sees it (didja catch it? Did you really?), before he blinks it away.
His mouth curves up into an intellectually cocky grin, though his eyes remain austere and searching, robbing her of coherent thoughts, "And who are you so deeply in love with?"
Her face spreads into a languorous grin, full of malice and whythefucknot's, "Stefan."
She never pauses to even glance at him.
"Stefan?" His voice is like the ice that her cousins used to throw under her shirt during some horrid family gathering.
"Stefan," she agrees slowly.
"He's with Elena, Caroline, in case you've forgotten."
She's quiet for a long while, bleary thoughts tumbling through her mind.
"I'mma-I'm- gonna play with my dolls for a minute. Be right back," she breathily answers.
He grabs her arm, "Stop this, Caroline."
"Give me one good, fat, juicy reason, Damon, and maybe I'll consider stopping my self-destructing path away from righteousness," she growls wearily.
"Because-"
A slight acknowledgment period passes. She sighs, throwing off his tight grasp, "You have nothing. I see. Which one is prettier-"
It's like lightning, as always. She's standing up, beginning to pick through her girl Barbies, when she's whipped around, a tempestuously harsh pain arising in her arm. She gets a millisecond to stare into his glorious face, before his lips are on hers in the roughest, neediest, most wonderful way that makes her feel so damn sane and alive and human that she just. can't. even. He tastes like chocolate and Scotch and want. But not the rough, burning kind. The kind that's absolutely horrible for the body, but it's so smooth, so molten streaming through the system that it's irresistible. And he smells so good. The rusty tang of blood surrounds him, sensitive only to other vampires; it's like a honey aroma to humans, or so Elena says.
Their cacophonous breathing has to be disturbing as it echoes in the forlorn house, adding yet another memory, but she doesn't even care. He started the kiss, and she sure as hell isn't going to stop it now (But I thought you loved Stefan, naughty girl!). He breathes shakily into her mouth, dark locks of hair partly concealing a face of substance and perfection.
Their tongues momentarily entwine, before she throws herself from him, and flees.
.
She goes straight to her secluded beach, slips off her clothing, and commences her routine. The water laps at her floating form; seagulls perch and caw loudly; the breeze is cool, the sky overcast. The phantom hands begin to tingle damp fingertips along her body, every touch more sensitive than the rest. It increases pressure on certain parts, inducing a flailing gasping sound from her. She becomes warm in the chilled water; a voice breathes moist air into her ear-
And she opens her eyes.
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a/n- um. Yeah. That was terrible. (The strange stuff in the parentheses were her twisted thoughts, just in case you were wondering.) But entirely experimental. Reviews would be incredibly awesome.