A/N: Thanks, again, go to my beta-reader ellensmithee, thank you so much for taking the time for helping me when you have so much work in RL! :)
I can't wait what you all think about this chapter! +is biting nails+
It's… strange.
It's different from everything he is used to, everything that's worked for him for so many years. He has never felt like this before, in control and yet so close to snapping, to letting go, giving in and fuck the rest of the world.
He has never done it before, has never had to do it.
He has never held back, he has never tried to keep himself in check, it's not in his nature, it's not what he does, who he is. If he wants something, he gets it, if he's not allowed to take it, he gets it anyway, because that's how it goes, that's what his world is like. He can take it, everything, he is strong enough, it's how he survives, how he was born—what he was created to do. He's at the top of the fucking food chain and if he is hungry, if he needs blood, he damn well takes it. No second thoughts, no promises to be gentle or considerate—he feeds. He might not kill, not all the time, not anymore, but if it happens, if there is death and bloodshed, well, he doesn't care, it's not his problem.
He has never had to hold back, never had to fight against the hunger, against his nature—the need for blood—
He does now.
The smell of blood is heavy in the air, so rich, so there he can taste it on his tongue. It's everywhere, so strong, so fucking tempting and close, all he has to do is reach out—
He gasps, head spinning as he feels his control slip for just a second. He growls deep in his throat as his senses go into overdrive, threatening to drag him under. Everything, every smell, every sound, every sensation right now is just that little bit too intense, too loud, too enticing to ignore. The blood is calling out to him, sighing his name like an old lover, whispering words into his ear, compelling him to come closer, to let go…
And where he would normally never even stop to think about it, he now forces himself to take a step back from everything, the situation, the smell, the hunger that's coursing through him, burning through his veins—
He snarls, baring his fangs to the darkness, before he turns, retreating to the other end of the too small cell. He needs to stop this, he needs to put an end to this, if he doesn't get away, if he can't control this and put some distance between him and the human—between him and Ric—
Reality isn't helping at all.
Every time he thinks he has a sliver of self-control, of something solid to lean on—it crumbles under the onslaught of the smell. There is no escape from it, the few steps don't make a difference, the smell is already there, welcoming him, wrapping around him like a second skin. Sweet, rich, familiar—his, his alone—
He shakes his head vigorously, casting his senses out of the small cell, tries to locate whoever did this to them, to Ric, on what he is going to do to them once he gets the chance, how he won't allow them to mess with him like that, tries to pick up a scent, a sound to concentrate on. They are going to pay for this, he's going to hunt them down, one by one or all together, he doesn't really care—
"Damon?"
Alaric's croak, a shadow of his usual voice, drifts through the darkness, soft, concerned, wary.
It pulls him out of his thoughts and he can't help but turn around, eyes snapping to him before he can stop himself. He looks at him, taking in every detail, how Alaric is slumped against the wall with his arms draped across his middle, how he keeps moving restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position, how his jaw is clenched tight against the shivers running through him, causing his breath to hitch. He's looking in Damon's general direction, but his eyes aren't focused, he keeps blinking dizzily into the darkness. The right side of his face is covered in blood and it looks like black paint in the dark, as if he is wearing some sort of mask—
He's all over Alaric in a heartbeat, straddling the other, crowding him against the wall. Alaric gasps out a pained curse when Damon's knee digs into his injured side in the process, folding into Damon's chest as his body tries to curl around it, to shield it. His hands start pushing at Damon's knee, fighting to dislodge it.
"Get off me, it hurts—" Alaric snarls into Damon's shoulder, all traces of dizziness and weakness gone as he squirms against him, trying to get away from the pressure.
It's a reflex, Alaric moves to the side and Damon's hand shoots out, closing over Alaric's throat and forcing his head back against the wall. He's done it a million times before, watching his victims stare at him, wide-eyed, panicked, begging him to let go, to not hurt them—
Alaric freezes, just like them, and looks at him, but there's no panic in his eyes, no horror, nothing but a mixture of anger and betrayal lurking at the edges as he gasps for air, one hand coming up to clutch at the one around his throat.
"Damon—"
It would be so easy, a mental nudge, a small shove in the right direction and Alaric wouldn't be aware of anything anymore it, wouldn't feel it, wouldn't fight him, wouldn't mind. Sooo much easier, no drama, no heartache, no hurt feelings— He's tempted, he thinks of the way Alaric would just melt against him, all relaxed and pliable, would give in at the slightest touch and with no protest at all—And suddenly there's another need racing through him, a different kind of hunger clouding his senses. He shivers, eyes fixed on Alaric's face who looks back at him and frowns, then increases his struggles.
"Damon, wait—"
"I'm hungry…" Damon whispers and closes the distance between them, covering Alaric's lips with his own.
Alaric makes a choked noise of protest at the back of his throat and brings his hands up, starts pushing against Damon, against his shoulders, but Damon doesn't pull back. Instead, he deepens the kiss, letting one of his fangs graze over Alaric's bottom lip as he slowly releases his hold on his throat. Alaric relaxes somewhat and stops pushing at him, but he's still trying to squirm away from him, brows drawn together into that unhappy frown. Damon lets his hand wander around the back of Alaric's neck and growls softly when his fingers discover dried blood and a lump the size of a small egg, causing Alaric to wince and hiss into the kiss.
When he finally pulls back, Alaric is panting softly against him, too out of breath to say anything for a moment. Damon takes advantage of it and starts kissing his way down the side of Alaric's neck, pausing to run his tongue over the fresh blood tracks there.
"I'm hungry," he whispers against the bloodied skin of Alaric's throat, because it's important, he needs to make him understand. "I'm hungry and there's only you…" As if it isn't obvious, as if he needs Alaric's permission—
His breath catches in his throat when he gradually realizes that he does, he wants to hear it. The thought pulls him out of the need-induced heat, allowing him to catch his breath for a second. He wants this, he wants to hear it, he needs to know it's okay—and that's such a weird level of fucked up, even for him, that he pauses to shake his head slightly, chuckling softly against the warm skin.
"I know, Damon, I know that, okay?"
Alaric is breathless above him, and he's pushing against him, although it seems as if he can't make up his mind whether he wants to push him away or pull him closer. He seems to be determined to get some point across and Damon forces himself to listen, if only for a moment, forces the need back as he nips his way down Alaric's throat.
Alaric swallows heavily and his voice comes out strained. "You're our only shot at getting out of here, all right? You have to heal—you have to be strong enough, got it?"
"Got it," Damon mumbles softly and stills when Alaric's fists tighten in his collar, pulling him closer for a moment.
"Just… try to not kill me with this tonight… okay?" He sounds like he's joking, but his heartbeat gives him away, it's racing, he's nervous, scared, but willing to trust him.
Damon pulls back and lets go of Alaric's hair, watching as the other leans back against the wall and looks at him searchingly for a moment, before he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, a small, nervous smile playing at the corner of his lips.
"Okay, Țepeș, bite me…"
Something clicks into place, something that wasn't there before but is, now, something he needs to have a look at later—
Damon tenses, eyes zeroing in on the part of Alaric's throat where neck meets shoulder and his lips peel back, releasing his fangs—
He almost jumps out of his skin at the soft voice coming from behind him.
"I am sorry to intrude, gentlemen, but I believe you might be interested in… a peace offering."
(Just in case not everyone is familiar with this, Țepeș (the Impaler) was one of the names given to Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia, the man who inspired Bram Stoker for his count Dracula. Seemed like something my favorite history teacher/vampire hunter would know... ;)