One:
Any Other Way
I
They're not in love, and Merlin forbid, they're not dating. Dating means going out on excursions together, sipping coffee in booths hip to hip with his scarf around her neck in autumn and her lipstick stain on his collar, tumbling from bars at night with his coat flung over her shoulders as they drunkenly giggle under starlight and try to stagger home or to the nearest chippy for a kabab that would half end up on her dress and his shirt, finding flowers in a vase resting on a table on anniversaries or birthdays.
The only thing Kol leaves Heather with is bruises and bites (she leaves her fair share of marks on him too).
It's not love.
It's not dating.
They're not friends, and there's no benefits to what they do.
They barely tolerate each other on the best of days (the days Heather isn't trying to mitigate her brothers blunders, or Kol trying to keep his own from daggering him), and to imply that Heather wished to be in his company more than necessary would be outrageous.
They still end up that way nevertheless.
Heather's a Salvatore (recently discovered after some witchy-timey-whimey stuff), and Kol was a Mikaelson, Mystic Falls was a small, small town, and this wasn't fucking Romeo and Juliet (they're more like Bonnie and Clyde).
Kol isn't as interesting or as smart as he thinks he is, and more often than not Heather only calls him the bastard, and he calls her wench (a play on witch), and because their siblings are misanthropic megalomaniacs (Damon and Klaus can be eerily similar when they want to be) they keep crossing paths. It isn't her fault those paths lead them to then falling into a bed repeatedly (really it isn't. Blame Kol's dimples).
Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Morgana knew what number thirteen is.
So no, they're not dating, they are not friends, but Circe… They're something.
II
He smells like fresh mint, beer (the good stuff, the kind you can still taste honey in), sage and black liquorice (the first sweet Heather ever had, stolen at one of Dudley's grand birthday parties). It's sinful, the scent, and it's strong as he steals a seat beside her at the bar of the Mystic Grill. Only Kol knew what had brought him over from the pool table, everyone in the bar could tell the irate girl sitting nursing limoncello was in no mood for company.
They begin bickering immediately because of course they do. You put those two in the same room and within an hour one's going out the bloody window (as Heather had proven at the Mikaelson ball, and Kol's back as he fell three stories could attest). Kol gives as good as he gets (Heather's ended up ran over more than once, and had a Crossbow bolt through a shoulder, cheers).
Heather isn't sure when the sniping turns to Kol looking at her, looking and looking and looking-
And grinning.
"So when are we going to fuck then, sweetheart?"
The only thing Heather should be putting Kol and Fuck together with is Off. But she doesn't. She blinks at him. Blinks some more, squints a little as if this is the first time the possibility has ever crossed her mind (it isn't. Her recent dreams don't count, however, and Kol isn't playing fair with how those jeans fit his thighs) and she can't remember what she said, she must have said something between the time of him asking her that and they ending up in the back bathrooms of the Grill, locked in a tiny cubical, with his hands down her trousers.
He draws two fingers through the slick making her knickers damp, fingers lazy and slow. His chuckle is like that too, molasses and golden syrup until it feels as if she's bathed in sunshine-spun-sugar, languid while hers is a little breathless (a whole lot desperate), and they're cramped up, pushed up, back against a tiled wall and a heat bursting in her belly as dark eyes gleam down at her.
Turns out there's another word Heather can put Kol and Fuck together with.
Me.
III
Kol nips at her jaw. It's the only warning Heather gets before his head is lowering and he laves at the spot between her shoulder and neck, crooning. It's two weeks later after the first time (the one she'd swore would be the only time), and Heather had been at the local High School dance celebrating the filmography club the school was now running (the Americans took any chance to play dress-up apparently).
She was also there to play back-up defence should the Mikaelsons appear for Elena. Heather doesn't mind this. For once the death and danger isn't orbiting her (oh but it is, it is, and she doesn't see it yet).
She'd gone as Holly Golightly, had her hair up and wispy, black dress tight and silk gloves tighter, sunglasses perched over nose living an Audrey Hepburn daydream.
Kol had come as bloody Alex from a Clockwork orange (bowler hat and all).
Heather, again, isn't sure who spots who first in the auditorium, there were so many people Heather's surprised she sees him at all through the crowd of roving teenagers. Neither does she know who slinks closer first, who grabs whose hand through the throng, who pulls the other out from the double doors and into the hall, looking for an empty classroom.
They don't make it that far.
Heather has his belt off, and the button from his costume trousers undone, and Kol, again, has her up against the lockers, picks her up and presses hard enough to dent the metal.
It's not soft, this one (it doesn't have to be. For once they can both let go). It's hard and it's fast, and it's sloppy. The rough rasp of a tongue, teeth knocking teeth, his scent is thick in the air and hers is too, together, blending.
If scents could get someone drunk, Heather's wasted on Kol's. She must be some sort of inebriated to pull this stunt. The hall is lit and wide, and anyone could come around the corner any second-
And any misgivings fly away with her breath as he rucks up her skirt, notches and slides home (home. It always feels like home with Kol). It's a rush of sensation after that, a cresting hill she's flung over, fingers in mouth, a suck and a groan, the snapping of hips and the protesting creak of metal grinding, a hoarse voice in her ear (Good girl), a wrench of her hair to tilt her head back, the hiss through his teeth as her fingers leave claw marks on his arm, and-
Sunshine-spun-sugar in her mouth, in her belly, in her nose, in her.
It's the after that troubles Heather, as Kol nips her jaw and his face is lowering and he laves at the spot between her shoulder and neck, crooning.
"Elskan mín…"
He groans (Heather has no idea what it means, thinks it might be Scandinavian, and she's far too nervous to look it up), and his voice is soft. Soft. Too soft for the aftermath of what they'd done (again), and it jars Heather back into her tingling body, wedges her mind with her worries, back from the clouds of a curling toe'd orgasm, and she thinks it shouldn't be soft.
They weren't dating. They weren't even friends. Who knows what they are, but it wasn't any of that.
Heather does the only reasonable thing to do.
She snaps his neck with a twist of her fingers and a spell, tidies him up with a few cleansing charms, rights his clothes with a hex, and makes a fucking run for it (she's not there to hear him laugh when Rebekah finds him not twenty minutes later as he barely begins to revive).
The next day, when Caroline stands in the middle of the hall and gripes at the giant dent that had taken hers and three other students lockers unusable, asking what the hell could cause that, Heather says nothing at all.
There is nothing to say.
IV
Somewhere between the second and the seventh, Kol's somehow become the high point of Heather's days (her life really is a sad affair, isn't it?). After spending hours dealing with Damon's dramatics, Stefan's brooding, and Elena's misplaced heroics that lead them to the do or die of the week, can anyone really fault her for wanting to unwind?
And that's all it is, Heather tells herself as she sneaks up the Mikaelson's expansive garden, apparates herself onto Kol's window outside and knocks on the glass (she feels a bit like Peter Pan, but she doubts Kol would like being thought of as Wendy).
He's already laying on the bed (smug arsehole), shoes off (even Kol isn't as big of a monster as to wear shoes in bed), one long leg slung over the other, hands behind his head, ready and waiting for her.
His grin doesn't make her stomach loop. It makes it rise and drop and burn.
Kol doesn't expect much of anything from Heather, and it's a novelty she tells herself (one that will wear off soon. Really. It will). He doesn't require her to sacrifice her life for the greater good, doesn't need her to keep an eye on his very newborn Vampire girlfriend whose determined to become a martyr, or to help him in his next hair-brained scheme dreamed up with a bottle of bourbon (Heather loves her brothers, but they are fucking idiots).
Kol doesn't expect anything from her.
He just gives.
Fingers, cock, tongue, fast, slow, hard. Anything she wants, she gets. Most of the time, Heather doesn't even need to ask, doesn't need to say anything, almost like he can read her mind.
His kisses taste strange that time, bitter a little, tangy like copper (she should have seen it coming), and Kol always seems larger without his clothes to restrain him. As wild as his dark eyes. He's muscled in a way Heather would taunt him about making up for something if he was anyone else, but when she's lying naked underneath him on his mattress, caged in by arms, heart racing behind her ribs to a beat that sings in her blood, she doesn't say much at all (Kol makes enough noise for the both of them, teasing-taunting and talking way too much). But she does think.
Run.
Run.
Run before you do something stupid.
He drinks up her moan as he pushes to fingers into her, sips at her lips like sangria, his own hips canting near her thigh. Heather holds on because it's the only thing she can do, she wouldn't go this fast on her own but neither would she get this wet, so maybe Kol knows something she doesn't (he does with his copper kisses).
Maybe it's best to just take what he gives and not question a thing. For her sanity at least.
His head trails down, down her neck and chest, dipping into her belly, crossing peppered kisses over a hip, and she frowns, confused-
"What-"
Then Kol does what Kol does.
He smirks and he plays with his food.
"Oh-"
It's breathless, panting, aching need pitching her voice high as Kol's head inclines between her thighs, and then there's heat, searing heat between her legs, and the noises, wet on wet, should make her embarrassed, mortified, but it only sears her blood and flushes her cheeks red, the kind of blush that blisters down her quaking chest (if Heather thought Kol's scent was dangerous, his mouth is fucking deadly).
And Heather doesn't realize she's begging hoarsely until he's head peaks up over her spasming stomach, the hollowness she feels when he stops, her fingers wrangled in his hair trying to tug him back before she completely falls from the mountain she was climbing, mouth glistening in her shame, laughing sunshine across the goosepimples on her flushed flesh, what it is she's begging for (he knows. The fucker knows. He just wants her to say it).
"Please. I like it—"
A mocking swipe, barely there, barely given before being snatched away. A warning masquerading as a promise.
"Fuck... Merlin, fine, please make me cum-"
"Oh, darling-"
It's not nice, that smile. It's fucking mean and cruel and everything Kol.
"You know I'll give you whatever you want, all you have to do is ask."
And he does. He bloody does. Three times and the last nearly makes her black-out (and he gives her things she never asks for too).
And maybe Kol isn't the only one giving, because there's a warmth in her chest, a glow in her bones, as she calls him a wanker and slinks out his window again in the early morning hours (promising herself, a-fucking-gain, this is the last time), and his answering chuckle makes her heart beat unevenly (Kol does know something she doesn't. Something she's not ready to see).
Heather's giving something away alright, something tender and small and a little bruised, and so very easy to break (she's just not ready to admit what it is).
V
Heather knows something is wrong long before she spots Klaus storming down the street towards the Gilbert residence. She's been on edge for the last half hour, tight and wound up like a Gordian knot. She tries to burn the tension out of herself, takes a walk around town-
Only to see a Mikaelson on a mission marching down the road.
She beats Klaus there by Apparating.
She barely makes it, and it takes her a moment to realize what's in front of her. Kol's in the kitchen, butcher's knife in his shoulder, and Jeremy has the vervain water from the tap (the water Heather had set up for them herself), spraying him, keeping him back and burning.
Elena has a White Oak stake in hand.
She almost laughs (she knows what's coming, and she knows what she's going to do, and, fucking hell, it was always going to come to this, wasn't it?).
Heather's shorter than Kol, barely up to his shoulder side to side, and so, as Elena raises the stake, and Heather apparates one last time (in front), it misses her heart (why she doesn't just fling a hex to send Elena back is beyond Heather, she's caught in the moment, can't think beyond knowing what was happening and wanting it to stop).
Instead it cuts through her neck, lodges in the side, a burst of white-blind pain and a dying voice. Elena stumbles back and Heather falls, the world spins, she coughs up warm blood, everything's warm, everything's burning, something is roaring in her ear (dying for love once is a coincidence, dying for love twice is a nasty habit Heather's forming).
Kol's there before she can blink (she has between 15-60 seconds with a slashed carotid artery), and she thinks she sees Klaus halted at the house door open in the hall, sees Jeremy and Elena frozen, and there's fingers pressing into her neck, around the stake, and dark, dark eyes staring down at her (it's the Salvatore blood in her. Salvatore hearts are always leading them into the maw of a reckless death).
"Why?"
Kol sounds lost, the smallest he's ever been, and Heather can't speak, can't answer, all that comes is blood, but he must know (Kol's known since the beginning).
They're not dating.
They're not friends.
They're something much worse (better).
Lovers, aching, breaking lovers (Bonnie and Clyde indeed), Kol gives and Heather takes, and somewhere along that line they'd swopped hearts (it only seemed right hers was now slowing to a stop like his should have a thousand years ago).
Heather grasps his hand, squeezes with the last strength she had, and it's the last thing she does (the only thing she could ever do with Kol was hold on), the last thing she sees (dark eyes gleaming down at her), the last thing she feels (home).
VI
When Heather comes back around with a peculiar ache to her gums, a pounding in her head and a neck suspiciously free of fatal wound, in a room too bright-
Kol's room in the Mikaelson mansion (she recognizes the sheets, has been here too many times not to know them by now, can count the stitches blindly), to him grinning at her from the foot of the bed, cavalier and careless (and still alive-… For a Vampire), Heather knows what's happened (copper kisses. Should have seen it).
"Hello darling. You had me worried there. You've been sleeping for the last three days, and although I've never Sired anyone before Elijah said you should have been up and moving in one. Might be that witchy voodoo you have."
"Kol?"
"Yes, love?"
"Run."
He does run, and Heather chases. And they fight because of course they bloody do, they curse, Heather throws him through a wall (Klaus is going to blow a blood vessel when he sees the hole) and Kol tackles them both off a balcony, and if Kol looses his shirt somewhere between the garden and treeline of the surrounding woods, if Heather's jeans get dumped in a ditch by an old oak, if they end up sweaty and panting and naked in a wildflower field, then they both should have seen it coming.
"I love you."
Heather says for the first time, soft and catching like brambles in her throat, still trying to catch her breath, still her thundering heart (a beat that matches the one pressed against her ear), the only time she will tell Kol she promises because his ego is already big enough (just as she keeps saying sleeping with him will be the last time), and Kol laughs his sunshine-spun-sugar that sticks to her skin and makes her feel golden.
"About time, sweetheart. Was there any other choice for us?"
No.
There really wasn't.
A.N: This is just a little something to keep the creative juices flowing for my Vampire Diaries fics (and to practice smut for when I get there in the long stories). This is going to be a compilation of one-shots or short tales a couple of chapters long, all with a Fem!Harry pairing, all a little filthy.
If you could help a girl out for practice, or you have a certain pairing/kink you want to see, hit me up (Review or P.M)! I really do need the preparation lol.
Hope you guys liked this, and please don't squint too hard or you're going to see the plotholes lol. If you can, don't forget to drop a review, and I will see you all soon! Until then, stay beautiful! ~AlwaysEatTheRude21
