Holy water cannot help you now
Thousand armies couldn't keep me out
I don't want your money
I don't want your crown
See I've come to burn your kingdom down

Florence + The Machine, Seven Devils

Sometimes she thinks he likes it.

"My lady," whispers Damon as he kisses her stomach, hands already settling between her legs, gently moving them further apart. He feels good on her skin, warm and solid, just what she needs.

He can be exactly what she needs.

"Say it again," demands Elena, her fingers resting leisurely on his hair, ready to grab.

"My lady," he replies obediently and gestures her to bend her knee so he can slip his arm beneath it. "My lady".

Good.

It rings in her ears when his tongue slides over her, slow movements like syllables, myla-dy, myla-dy. He likes this, she's pretty sure he does, the taste of power on his lips and strength trembling under his fingers. He likes taking power off her layer by iron layer, his own head bowed and his breath ragged, and she lets him, melts underneath him until there's no weight left on her shoulders.

(Then her hips arch up, so she grabs Damon's hair to pull him closer, and she takes it all back.)