A/N:
WARNING: suggestive themes ahead. Tread carefully.
Dark Side.
Chapter 22: Kill or Be Killed. Part II.
Cass doesn't register much the first time she comes around. She remembers the pain, not from the bullet wounds, but a different kind of pain. Fire suddenly running through her veins, cold swimming up her fingers and toes until it reaches her elbows and knees respectively. She remembers voices, two, one familiar enough to want her to stop wasting time. Her mind a muddy swamp. And then more pain, tearing pain, so sudden, so strong, she must have screamed. At least she remembers something like a scream echoing around her, hoarse, before the waking world slipped from her fingertips again.
The next time she wakes up is to voices again. Her head must be healed from the bullet's wrath path, because she has no problem identifying the owner of the tremulous voice. Caroline is in the middle of a rant about death and vampirism and vervain and 'she's half-vampire. What if she's dead-dead!'
"Caroline…" Damon's veiled threat is clear even to her tired ears.
She forces her eyes open. They meet rough, grey stone. The deep breath she attempts to get rid of the knot in her chest gets stuck in her throat at the same time Caroline mumbles a quiet 'sorry'. Coughing, Cass sits up, hand crawling up to her neck. Her fingernails pick at the wound there, scratching at the end of a bullet embedded deep in her carotid artery. The bullet comes out slick with blood, but intact. Thank any deity out there willing to grant her another day on this earth. Her hand travels to her forehead, feeling the half-dried, slimy blood trickling down her face. The bullet hole is healed, though. One quick check to the back of her head, to the damp, matted area in the center, informs her that, while she may be sore, no bullet remains inside her brain.
She looks around. They're in some sort of underground cell. The ground is hard and cool beneath her, dusty. Stefan is still unconscious by her feet. Elena kneels beside him; blood-shot eyes meet Cass's with so much emotion they turn void. Damon is rising to his feet—more like stumbling—a dead deputy in front of him. His lips, scarlet with blood. Not his own, this she knows. Still, her own sight flashes red. Before she can think about it, she's marching towards a cowering sheriff, and this time she's not negotiating. Elena cries out to her, echoing Caroline's desperate begging. She doesn't stop, not even at the growing terror in the Sheriff's face.
"Cassie, don't!"
Damon's hand wraps around her arm, sliding down to her wrist. His grasp is weak, or at least it feels like that to her, who is so driven by unadulterated rage. Still, the unexpected feeling of his skin on hers is enough to slow her down. He moves until he traps her between his arms, his forearm against her stomach. Fool, she thinks, I can still kill her from here. She glares at the Sheriff with laser-like focus, allowing her magic to spill from its tight cage and run through her veins unabridged.
"Hey, no!" Damon's order barely trespasses the rushing sound of her heartbeat in her ears. His hand travels up her arm until it reaches her face; his fingers fold behind her ear, tucking the back of her head, palm cupping her cheek. "Look at me. Hey, look at me."
She stops fighting his hold, mostly because it's taking him a lot and she feels the tremors running underneath his skin. She turns away from the Sheriff—from her gleaming eyes and tight lips, from the way she quivers in a corner, paying no mind to her dirty clothes—and looks up to meet his eyes. The snarl scarring her face disappears.
Damon's paler than usual, his forehead glistens with sweat, his lips are chapped and a shade of pink too light for it to be healthy. He smells of blood and dirt, chlorophyll mixing with sweat in a strangely metallic scent. He stenches of vervain, and she wonders how much they gave him that she can still smell it, that it can still have him swaying on his feet, even after feeding.
Her magic lets out something like a whimper through her as it, willingly, crawls underneath her skin and returns to its home, dormant. Her breathing slows.
"Remember how angry you were at me," Damon whisper, tilting his face down towards her. His voice is quiet enough that she's probably the only one able to discern his words. "When I tried to kill your friend? Imagine how she'll react if you kill her mom."
Unwillingly, Cassandra glances at the sheriff once more. Two tears slide down her face; her arms tighten around her body. Next to her, with too much space between them, sits Caroline in a similar position to her mother's. Her mouth is stained in blood, covering her chin and the tip of her nose. Her eyes are not stuck to the ground, though, but on them, curious, cautious, but above all, scared. She doesn't want Caroline to fear her.
The sheriff killed her, though. Not only that, she hurt Stefan enough that he hasn't awaken yet. Hurt Damon enough that he's still not completely stable on his feet. He's still breathless, still healing, even if he's trying not to show it. His weight shifts from his left foot to his right, slanting a little too far. Her hand presses to his waist, keeping him balanced. The sudden movement has black spots dancing in front of her. Okay, so maybe they're both a little more hurt than they want to admit.
Her eyes meet his again; she nods. His shoulders relax, and, for the first time since he whispered in her ear, she thinks maybe the request wasn't entirely for Caroline. But for him, too.
"How you feeling?" Damon asks.
The hand in her cheek tilts her head up, climbs up her face until his thumb is rubbing at the center of her forehead. It hurts just enough for the motion to be annoying. Before she can swat his hand off, he pushes her head down, trying for a clear view of the back of her head. Whatever protest she was about to emit dies in her throat when she gets a good look at herself. A feat she didn't bother with before, having been so focused on getting to Liz.
It's almost like she stepped out of a horror movie. Her dress is more red than white. Deep crimson at points until the blood spreads into a lighter red and then comes to a stop. Some of the bloodstains are still wet enough that the fabric sticks to her hips and legs. She's missing a shoe, she notices as her toes wiggle in the dirt.
"I'm fine," she says, even if the room is starting to spin. Even if her legs feel like jelly. "I think I got more vervain than you, though." She admits when he lets go off her head.
Without his touch, a shiver runs down her back. She suddenly realizes this makeshift dungeon is colder than she thought. Damon hums in the positive, lips stretching into a bitter smile. Wait, he was conscious? At least, conscious enough to see her get injected with a ridiculous amount of vervain, she judges by the way his eyes darken and his smile falls.
A memory floats around the back of her mind, voices more than anything. Liz, please, no… a shot ringing through the air… the gut-wrenching scream that made Cass flinch enough for her to realize she was lying in something rough, like concrete… another gunshot, one without a single vocal reaction… the promise to drag it out painfully… Liz, don't, please, not—whatever he wanted to say drowned out by a demand not met… the deafening sound of a gun being fired in close quarters… and, then, nothing until five minutes ago.
"Are you okay?" Cassandra asks him.
She doesn't mean physically.
"Yep." He answers with another tight-lipped smile, one drenched in sarcasm.
Rough, obstructed coughing breaks their unwavering eye-contact. Stefan is awake. He lies on his side, hands clutching at his wounds. Elena rushes to help him sit up, one arm around his shoulders, face close to his, sweet nothing falling from her lips like wisps of smoke. Like litanies murmured inside the cold skeleton of a church. Her eyes go back to Damon, to the clear worry reflected in his eyes, making them wider, softer.
"You should feed," he says when he catches her staring. "Baldy over there still has some blood."
She glances at Baldy, slumped against the far wall. Her first instinct is to refuse; it looks like he and Stefan need blood a whole lot more than she does. Except Liz Forbes might try something, and she seems to be the only one willing to kill her in the name of survival. She can't protect them if her legs quiver and her mind floats inside her brain.
Baldy's blood is heavy against her tongue, sharper in taste than would be considered healthy. Baldy would have died soon regardless, it seems. While deceased blood is not the tastiest by far, it's still blood. It's still nurturing and soothing and delicious, even if Baldy's is the equivalent of eating two double cheeseburgers and large fries. She drinks until there is only enough blood for one or two gulps, in the rare event that Stefan might consider breaking his diet. Then, Cassandra makes her way to Stefan.
He has his head between his knees, breathing in and out slowly. Elena kneels beside him, hand rubbing circles on his back, face contorted into a worried frown. Damon crouches in front of him, one hand wavering between Stefan's shoulder and forearm. It's a strange moment; the brothers were fighting like dogs only an hour ago, Elena hasn't wanted to be this close to Damon in a long time. And yet, there they are forming some sort of unit that makes absolute sense. A unit shaped in love and bonding through danger and an understanding that's palpable. It leaves Cassandra wondering whether she belongs, whether she's trying just a little too hard to be part of something that clearly has no space for her.
Ignoring the way her blood runs like frozen mercury through her veins, she crouches down to Stefan's other side. She may be able to go home with five bullets still embedded in her skin, but Stefan cannot. Not when he's younger and weakened by animal blood.
"Let me see." Cass requests, gentle.
Stefan glances at her through the safe, confined space his crossed arms and knees provide. For the span of a breath, she fears he won't let her help. Then, his left arm drops. She reaches for his shirt, undoes the first three buttons to reveal the wounded skin of his chest.
"I'm sorry," she whispers as her fingers rip the first bullet out of his chest muscles.
Stefan groans. The wound doesn't heal, even when the dim light in the cellar shows the bullet isn't fractured.
"You need to drink some deputy blood." Damon points out.
He sounds better, stronger than he did when she woke up. When he rises to his feet, he stumbles only just.
"No. I'm gonna be—fine." Stefan struggles to speak as she removes the last bullet, this one closer to his abdomen. "It's just gonna take a little bit longer."
"Damon's right, you know," Caroline says for the first time. Embarrassed, Cassandra realizes she forgot the blonde is here with them. "If there's ever a time to break your diet..."
"He said he didn't want it, okay?" Elena interrupts with a tone that leaves no argument.
Caroline flinches into herself. Elena looks sorry only for a second. She tears her eyes away from Caroline and back to Stefan, scooting closer to him. This is their moment. So, Cassandra rises to her feet, ignoring the way the wooden bullet in her thigh pulls at the skin and digs into the muscle.
"This is a most unfortunate situation." Damon looks around. "Two deputies dead—"
"Four."
"What?" he turns to her.
The surprise in his voice is mirrored in his face. Even Caroline perks up, stealing a peak through her elbows.
"I killed two deputies before the sheriff killed me."
"Those were good men." Sheriff Forbes protests in a moment of braveness.
"So are we." Cassandra scoffs.
Her argument is debatable. Damon has killed enough people to be considered a monster. Cassandra, enough to be considered an ancient Goddess. Stefan, a myth, a cryptic. She remembers, however, the men the two brothers used to be. Her love for Stefan may not be the same as her love for Damon, but she loves them both. Unconditionally. Evil cannot exist without Goodness. And, as far as Cassandra Woodhouse is concerned, the Salvatore brothers are good. Invaluable.
"You're a monster." Sheriff Forbes spits, anger fueling a foolish move.
"It was self-defense." Cassandra raises an eyebrow. "I look the same age as your daughter, and you didn't hesitate to put a bullet between my eyes."
The reminder of her daughter strikes the sheriff right in the heart. She flinches in on herself, hands tightening around her elbows. She squeezes her eyes closed; tears leak from her closed eyelids. The twinge of sympathy that makes Cassandra's heart stumble is ignored without difficulty.
"What are we going to do with you?" Damon sighs.
The undertone of a threat has Sheriff Forbes dragging in a shaken breath. Caroline drops her legs until her feet touch the dusty ground.
"You won't tell anyone, will you?" Caroline asks. Silence stretches, through which Sheriff Forbes tilts until she's farther away from Caroline. "Mom? Mom? Please."
Still nothing.
"Look, I know that we don't get along and that you hate me but I'm your daughter and you'll do this for me, right?" Caroline pleads. Her voice cracks in the middle. "Mom, please. He will kill you."
"Then kill me." Sheriff Forbes cries.
"No!" Caroline begs, jumping to her feet.
Sheriff Forbes glances at her daughter out of the corner of her eye before glancing up at a menacing Damon. Elena and Cassandra share a look.
"I can't take this." Sheriff Forbes shakes her head. She no longer pretends to not be crying. "Kill me now."
Damon bends down until he's close enough to meet the sheriff in the eye. At this point, she is trembling all over. The tension builds in the small stone alcove. Those who can afford not to breathe hold their breath. Cassandra's heart quickens as sick delight warms her blood and tickles her stomach when Damon grabs Sheriff Forbes' shoulders in one sudden swoop.
"But you were gonna drag it out so painfully…" Damon whispers at her with a smooth, soft threat.
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no!" Caroline begs in a long, high-pitched rant that turns the words into a single stream of sound.
"Damon, don't!" Stefan barks through a momentary surge of strength.
"Damon, please!" Elena exclaims with so much emotion one would think it was her own mother in danger.
Sheriff Forbes simply stares up at Damon, blinking owlishly. Cassandra says nothing, observing with interest.
"Relax, guys." Damon complains, rolling his eyes with his whole head. "No one is killing anybody." Everyone seems to relax at that. Caroline sits back against the rough stone wall. "You're my friend." Damon adds.
He lets go off Sheriff Forbes slowly, maintaining eye-contact. Cass thinks it's supposed to be reassuring, a promise sealed in a strong stare, but the sheriff looks even more terrified, disappointed. Above all, Sheriff Forbes looks broken.
Liz Forbes knows. She knows they are vampires. Her reaction—so violent, so prone to kill them without even considering they might be different—leaves Damon with a sour taste in his mouth. With a hard knot in his chest.
Stefan was weak and unconscious, helpless, and Liz still fired at him again. Cassie is tiny and looked like the epitome of a modern-day princess today. To the unknowing beholder, she looked pure, harmless, and Liz killed her twice, without hesitation, even when she looked to be in the verge of permanent death. She looked at Caroline, and instead of being grateful that her daughter got a second chance at life, she doesn't want to see her again. Proclaimed her gone. She shot at him and threatened to kill him.
Damon doesn't know what to do with it, her way of thinking, her prejudices, because Liz is still his dear friend. One of the very few he has. He's so caught up in his thoughts, that he almost doesn't notice the obvious signs that someone else is in his room.
The very first thing he notices is the clear sound of the shower running. Damon rolls his eyes, walking further into his room and getting a clear view of the rolling steam making its way out of the open bathroom in silvery white waves. Trust Blondie to take advantage of their hospitality and use whatever bathroom she pleases, no matter the fact that said bathroom belongs to him. It's when he takes a deep breath in through his mouth, gathering enough patience to not kick Caroline out of his bathroom butt-naked, that he realizes the person in his bathroom is most definitely not Caroline Forbes.
Whatever words were about to leave him die out in his mouth, brain suddenly stunted. He pauses near the doorway to the bathroom, at an angle in which he is only able to see the large bathtub, eyes attracted to the big Gucci bag hazardously left on the floor. Damon blinks at it, mouth still parted slightly as eyes trail over the black-and-red bag. He isn't sure why he's so shocked, but the person showering in his bathroom is most definitely Cassie.
She still smells the same, which is strange considering it's been a century since he met her, and female products must have changed a lot since then. But the flowery scents flowing around his room, seeping into his furniture and linens, lavender mixed with vanilla and something that is distinctly hers, all combined perfectly with her perfume, scream out Cassandra Woodhouse to every single one of his senses.
He looks down at the purse again, turned on its side, zipper wide open. Beside it rests a pile of bloodied clothes. Her dress is more red than white now. It's a bitter reminder of today but, mostly, it's a suggestion of what could have happened if Caroline hadn't intervened. His chest contracts painfully and his muddled mind sorts out a half-plan to thank Caroline later.
Idly, he walks into the bathroom. He's not entirely sure why. Maybe to ask her if she needs anything? Clothes that aren't stained? Some blood? Thank-God-we're-alive-I-can't-believe-you-almost-died sex? Hmm… that one.
Whatever he was thinking comes to a stop when his eyes finally catch her in the shower. It's definitely not what he was expecting. Not that he's 100% sure what he was expecting. The water is at full blast, hot enough to scald. At least he guesses based on the amount of steam within the shower itself, seeping out into the rest of the bathroom.
Cassandra stands to one side, facing the left wall and away from the water. Her leg is raised high enough that her knee is by her face. Her torso is crouched slightly as her hand pulls at the skin behind her thigh, fingers coming out bloody. He blinks, baffled, as she brings her fingers up to her scrunched-up face before running them under the running shower head.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Cassie jumps up, twirling in place to face him. Her eyes widen to such a degree Damon would have found it funny if his brain decided to start working again. His eyes are stuck to her face, blood ringing in his ears. The second he looks down slightly, Cassandra hastily lowers her leg. Damon watches with newfound amusement as the motion makes her lose balance, and she slides onto the floor in a heap accompanied by a string of eloquently put-together, if slightly outdated, swear words.
"Oh, ouch." A small hand presses against the glass door.
"Are you okay?" Damon asks.
It isn't until he's halfway to the shower that he realizes the clear alarm in his voice. He rolls his eyes. The woman died twice today, a fall in the shower will definitely not be the thing to land her on Heaven or whatever. Except he's surprised to find he is worried it might.
"I'm fi—ne." She lets out a groan.
Through the glass shower door, misted with so much steam he can barely even make her out, Damon watches as she pushes her hair away from her eyes, and shoots him a glare. Damon doesn't do anything, just looks at her. At the way her skin seems to glow with the water splashing against it, the dip of her small waist rising into the curve of her hips, leading up to her legs. Before his eyes can go further or lower down from her stomach, Cassandra stands up in the blink of an eye, and—ever the well-behaved lady—turns around, which isn't any better because it gives him a perfect view of her ass.
"Do you mind?" she snaps at him.
Her voice snaps him out of his staring contest with her body. It's an open invitation for teasing. It's not like he hasn't seen her naked before, or in more compromising positions. Instead, he finds himself turning around, face angled towards the slant where the room's wooden floor turns into the pale marble of the bathroom.
"I'll let you finish up." He clears his throat.
"Wait."
"What?" he blurts out, baffled.
For some strange reason, his heart starts to beat quick enough that it becomes annoying. The rhythm of the water hitting the shower floor changes for a moment, water splashing harder against the tile at random intervals.
"I kind of need your help with something." Cassandra explains, voice echoing around him.
"Okay…"
His answer ends up sounding like a question. If she realizes, she doesn't acknowledge it. Damon waits, pretending like the view of his room from here is completely fascinating, like his mind doesn't keep coming up with images of her, naked and wet and all sudsed up, waiting for him to join her. When the water stops running and the shower door squeaks as it opens, he fights the urge to turn around again. His eyes dart to the large mirror above the sinks in time to catch her reaching for a folded towel by the toilet. He looks back to his room before she can sense him peeping.
"Oh, can you pass me my bag?"
He does so silently. There's rustling behind him, tinkling like glass bottles are pushing against each other, followed by the distinctive sound of fabric unfolding.
"Are you mad at me?"
The casual tone of her voice halts the image of her dressing his brain provided him with. His eyebrows etch together.
"I'm not mad at you."
He doesn't sound as convinced as he planned. In fact, his voice adapts the harsh tone he uses on Stefan whenever his brother hits a nerve Damon didn't want him finding out exists. Funny, that through the years he grew to use that tone whenever Stefan prompted him to talk about her.
He isn't mad at her. More like, mad at himself because she's the most unpredictable person ever and yesterday he opened his mouth and talked about his mother. His mother, one of the secrets closest to his heart. To her, who doesn't share unless forced. Who he doesn't really know. And today she did nothing but look at him in a way that had his head spinning. Not to mention the fact that when Damon woke up in that dirty dungeon, the sight of her blood-soaked dead body constricted his stomach in such a painful way he thought he would throw up and his heart would fall out of his chest. It's confusing in an infuriating way. Not to mention reckless.
Behind him, Cassandra hums that annoying little hum that screams 'I'm calling your bluff.' He hates that sound.
"Is this why you asked me to stay?" he snaps. "Because I'm pretty sure we can have this conversation later."
Never, he amends in his mind. The sharp snap of an elastic strap slapping skin is followed by a zipper sliding open, and a resigned sigh.
"I was going to ask Caroline, but she's already pretty shaken over today. I don't want her to feel worse." Cassandra explains. He hums.
After some more rustling—she's towel-drying? Who knows?—Cassie speaks again:
"Right, as I was saying, I have a bullet in my back and I—"
"You what?"
This time, he does turn around. Surprised, he finds that she's half dressed. She wears a pair of black, high-waisted cargo pants, the cuffs reaching just above her ankles, a thick belt securing them in place. Black shirt bundled up in her right hand, she looks up from the small cosmetic bag in her grasp.
Damon glances down at her bag. A pair of underwear is understandable, but who carries a full change of clothes with them? My life. It's harmful and resentful dangerous to an unbelievable degree… her words from what feels like long ago filter into his mind, providing him with an answer: someone who needs to be ready to run away at any minute. His eyes find her again. They roam over the span of her stomach, up the valley of her breasts, covered by a black lacy bra. He shifts in his stance, suddenly finding the fitted fabric of his jeans more constricting than usual.
"Yeah, see?" She spins on the spot.
There, smack in the middle, above the black strap of her bra, right next to her spine, is a small, round wound. The bullet didn't go deep into her skin, just deep enough that it couldn't be easily removed without help. Not that he thinks she can even reach that far. Whatever idea was once more floating in his mind takes a step back. She turns back around with a shrug, holding up a tweezer in her hand.
"Can you, please, take it out?" her eyebrows lift with the question.
Damon agrees immediately. Cassandra walks towards him with ease, like the bullet doesn't dig into her spine with every movement. Like it doesn't hurt. They stand by the sinks, with her back facing him, long hair pushed to one side. Water still holds onto her, glistening against rosy skin, mingling with the fresh blood currently dripping lazily from the bullet wound. Swallowing through a dry throat, he gets to work.
"Sorry I used your bathroom without asking," she says after a moment of quietness. Damon hums. His fingers squeeze at the skin surrounding the bullet; the tweezer prods at it. Once more, if the motion hurts her, Cassandra doesn't let it show. "You have the best shower in the house."
"Here I was thinking you wanted me to walk in on you naked." He smirks.
He jokes to distract her. That was definitely a flinch. Barely there, unnoticeable had he been human, but a flinch none the less. It works. Her laugh echoes through the bathroom.
"You're so full of yourself!"
It should have been an insult, but there's fondness in her voice. The giggle that colors the end of her sentence seems to warm his blood. Secretly, he cherishes this strange moment of openness from her. When he was human, he only saw that side of Cassie in private. Now, even less.
"You're not denying it." Damon adds with a sing-song tone.
His eyes find her reflection in the mirror. He catches the roll of her eyes, the way her front teeth dig into the soft skin of her bottom lip.
"I was actually keeping an ear out for you, but that stupid splinter wouldn't come out of my thigh." She points out matter-of-factly.
It should irritate him, the way her words dismiss him completely. Despite the asshole of a day he had, he finds her words amusing.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night."
"I got distracted! Also, if I wanted you to see me naked it wouldn't with a fucking bullet stuck between m—ouch!" Her words stall; her back tenses.
"There." The bullet clanks against the sink's tile as he releases it from the tweezers. "You're welcome."
"Thanks," she says, turning to face him.
"Anything else?" Damon sends her a half-hearted smirk.
Cassandra looks at him, searches his face for something, and he thinks she might actually need something else. Unwillingly, he looks down at the small pile of bloody clothes by the bathtub. The sudden splashing of water against tile brings his attention back to this moment, rips him away from a future that never happened. The faucet in the sink closest to them is opened at full blast.
"If Liz goes after any of us again, I'm taking her out." Cassandra explains.
"She won't." His eyebrows pull together. The auditive distraction makes sense now; Caroline's newbie ears won't be able to hear them discussing her mother's future demise. "We're compelling her to forget."
"She will eventually find out again. And, if she reacts the same way, I'm dealing with it." Cassie responds immediately. She leans on the cabinet, right hand tightening around the bundled up shirt in her hands. "She killed me. She incapacitated Stefan; she could have killed him permanently. She tortured you…" her eyes travel down his torso. "She is not touching any of us again."
At that, her eyes jump back to his; they're clouded with worry.
"Why are you telling me this?" he finds himself asking.
"She's your friend. And that's the only reason she's alive."
The tone of her voice makes his chest tighten, makes his blood pump a little faster. An alarm goes off somewhere in his mind, something like panic and desire twisting until Damon's not sure whether he wants to fuck her or ruin whatever this is turning into. Because they were good friends, and sex simply became a byproduct of their shared attractiveness. Except after a century of something that is starting to sound a lot like longing the more he thinks about it, every conversation they have feels heavier. Like a boulder rolling down a hill at a dangerous speed. And Damon can't figure out why.
When he doesn't say anything, Cassandra clears her throat and slips her shirt over her head. Once her shirt is securely on, she turns the faucet off and makes for the exit. Panic sparks in his chest. Sure, he may not be sure whether he's comfortable with the metaphorical hanging sword over them, but he doesn't think he wants to be alone tonight.
Waking up in that hidden dungeon reminded him too much of years spent in another dirty, rusted, stinking underground cell, burning up with vervain, feeling a hunger incomparable, and deliriously waiting for Stefan to find him. For death to suddenly arrive, for some greater power to be merciful enough to put him in the same afterlife he thought Cassie was in.
"You could stay." Damon offers.
She turns to him, bewilderment lighting up her eyes. Bewilderment that is replaced by intrigue and that same flirtatious glint that made him consider having her in that physics classroom and have the whole fucking school listening. Cassie's just too damned sexy for him to not think about it.
"Could I?"
Her lips stretch into a suggestive smirk. She steps closer to him, face turned towards his, green eyes dark. He smirks right back, one shoulder rising up in a shrug. He gives her a look that's all sex, the one that's as much foreplay as any touching; he's learned that through the years. The one she doesn't hesitate to return. This is a dance, a song, they know well. Last time he was too wrecked, it'd been much too rushed. Not this time.
"Mmhm." He hums, inching closer to her.
His arm snakes around her lower back, gauging for a reaction. There's a slight waver to her breath when she presses up against him. Her small frame against him, her left hand slowly sliding up his side, the barest of touches, somehow manages to weaken his knees.
"It wouldn't be the worst thing." He adds, trying to regain control, pretending like he didn't wait for this moment all week.
"'The worst thing'?" she repeats, edging back. Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead; there's a dangerous glint to her eyes. Oh, fuck, he thinks as desire coils in his blood, making his breathing shallower than usual. "You're a dick."
"I know." Damon repeats the teasing tone in her voice.
Amusement quirks her mouth upward at the same time Cassie lifts herself up on her tiptoes, and her lips meet his. The world fades around him until he's only aware of her lips molding against his, her hand on his neck, the other running through his hair, nails scrapping against his scalp in the most irresistible way. He slips his hand under her shirt, palm holding onto the smooth skin of her waist, leaning in until they're completely pressed together.
Damon's mouth drags across her jaw, down her neck in wide, open kisses until he can taste her in his bones. She moans into his ear, fingers fighting the buttons in his shirt. She ends up ripping them off, and the echoing sound of the plastic buttons hitting the floor marble tile is overcome by the burning sensation of her hands on him. Cassie's hands travel down his chest to his torso, up his back, across his shoulders with a touch that alternates between rough and light, nails digging into his skin when Damon's mouth finds her collarbone. His heart beats wildly against his ribcage, blood rushing in his ears until all he can hear is their combined labored breathing, the way she sighs and moans softly at his touch.
Her mouth finds his again as she drops to her height, hands bringing him down with her. When Damon pulls at her shirt's hem, she takes it off without preamble. It's not long until her hands find his face again, and he only gets the briefest of glances at her stomach and the way the lacy fabric of her bra immediately brings his attention to her chest before she's kissing him again, quick, desperate, with her tongue passing over his bottom lip. It sends shivers down his back, and he has to lean against the bathroom counter to not collapse and bring her down with him. Her body presses into his, applying enough pressure to the front of his jeans to send ripples of pleasure through him.
"Fuck." Damon unwillingly gasps under his breath.
He feels her smirk against his shoulder, followed by trailing kisses that end with the blunt end of her teeth dragging against the sensitive spot between his collarbones. It reminds him of the past, of the way they kissed, the way she could drive him crazy with just a touch and a feather-like kiss.
An impulse floats in the back of his mind, one that took all he had not to give into last time, and he wonders what Cassie'd do if he sunk his teeth into her neck until he could finally taste her soul on his tongue.
Instead of finding out, one of his hand buries in her hair, the other travels down her body until they find the roundness of her behind. They kiss again, eyes meeting as her fingers tug at his belt buckle.
"So much for 'never again'." Damon teases her, referring to that same evening at the high school.
He'd be lying if he said he didn't think of having sex with her multiple times a day since that night, and the way Cassie's eyes cloud with want and her skin grows hot and her hands don't seem able to settle in one particular place have him thinking maybe she did, too.
That realization makes his blood hotter, his head lighter, as need pulls at his stomach until he thinks he's been starving for years and she's the thing he's been craving, in all her redheaded, freckled, body-to-die-for beauty. Damon can't wait to kiss every part of her until she's trembling and calling out his name, skin flushed the same pink color of his tongue. Can't wait to have her hot and slick around him, hips meeting and mouths sharing one same prayer, because sex never felt as holy as when it is with Cassie, not that Damon's willing to admit that. So, he pushes her hair back and kisses her, deeply, fervently, with his tongue twisting with hers slowly, before his words give her reason to change her mind.
When Cassie breaks the kiss, one hand trailing across his cheek until her fingers bury in his hair, Damon cannot breathe. When her other hand lays on his chest, above his hammering heart, he cannot move. Something builds inside him, warm and clenching, too heavy to dare name. A beat of stillness in a moment otherwise reigned by frenzy. And, then:
"Take off your clothes." Cassie orders, bossy, green eyes travelling up and down his body.
"Right away, Miss Woodhouse." He replies without missing a beat, like he can't feel her gaze on him like physical touch. Like he's not near trembling with want and need.
The way her lips curl into a smile makes it worth it. The belt buckle of his jeans comes undone with a click at the same time she unclasps her bra. If Damon was even slightly aware of the world around them before, it certainly disappears now. All he sees is her, all he focuses on is the two of them together, and he is, strangely, perfectly okay with that.
UPDATED: 16/01/2020