Author: Alicia of the Temptation.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, materials, etc, are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is, in no way, associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries, (Television Series.)
Summary: There was a part of him, which would whisper in his ear every dirty thought, every psychotic idea. It hadn't given him any for the past decade; but when Jeremy entered his life, the voice in Damon's head spoke loud and clear. "I want him."
Word Count: 1, 724.
Warnings: AU, Slash, Heavy Age Difference, and Ephebophilia.
There would always be a part of him wanting to do more than rebel, more than break out of societal norms. There would always be a part of him which enjoyed hearing the pained screams of his victims as he ripped out their limbs and organs, the gurgle-gasp of their lungs taking their last breath. Oh, would he grin a very devilish grin as he put his victims on display, always in public for his darling brother to find.
He treated his victims rather fairly, if they were fair folk. The naïve men and women would only have their blood drained, their corpse set aside under a full tree or sturdy bench, positioned as if asleep. There would be no trace of an attack, because most of them wouldn't have been. The women would have bruised lips from kissing him, the men would have bruised hips from taking him. And if Damon felt like killing them after sex, well, at least their last moments were pleasurable.
Oh, but did he treat the evil humans cruelly. In his mind, it was justification. Punishment. That first evil-doer, he found in New York in 1895. Damon had been strolling the streets, doing his best to avoid Stefan, when he heard the screams coming from an alley.
Damon was a murderer, preferred a bit of a torture, loved the power taking another life gave him. But, he was a gentlemen first and foremost. And if a woman refused him, even after all his charm and wit, he would leave her alone.
Which was why that first murder was justified. The woman had run off as soon as Damon took a hold of the man, a clean-cut young man from a high class family. Everyone loved to blame the vagabond, when it was truly the rich man who was responsible. Damon had pinned the man, well into his twenties, against the wall.
"When a woman says no," the vampire said as the man tried to fight against him. "She means no, and nothing else."
That murder was quick. A flick of his wrist, a snap of the would-be rapist's neck. The following morning, Damon had a newspaper in his hand with the story: "Vigilante on the loose: Man saves woman from attack, kills criminal."
As evil as Stefan would like to make him out to be, Damon truly wasn't.
At least, it was what he told himself.
He had his moments where he would save would-be victims from their attackers: a woman from a robbery, a boy from his drunken father, a man from the vision of speeding car. And he didn't need a thank you, even if he did like the attention the newspapers gave him.
He wanted to be good, even if he played the bad boy.
So that first crime, the only crime he considered, almost made him go insane.
That first boy was sixteen, the same age Jeremy was now. Pretty, with a slim figure, bobbed, brown hair and a bright red mouth. Damon had seen that boy walking the streets of Los Angeles in 1904, heeled boots and smooth clothes. And felt something stir in him. Attraction, his brain rationalized. You're attracted to him.
And Damon was. The vampire found beauty in the boy's smooth, broad shoulders, brightness in the kid's big grin and eyes. He felt hunger rise in the pit of his stomach when he saw that boy walk down the street with a high head and a full pocket. And bright red, bruised lips.
That boy is a paid whore, one part of his mind rationalized. A broad. A harlot. Nothing to be looked at.
But so lovely, that wicked part of him argued. So sweet. I need to hear him scream.
On a Sunday afternoon, Damon approached that boy – the boy named Demeter, the boy who was hardly godly at any definition of the word – and asked for a price.
Demeter, with smooth skin and glowing, brown eyes, looked Damon up and down, and grinned. "For you, darling, one hundred."
Damon had watched Demeter for weeks. He knew the boy liked to wage high. The older the man, the higher the price. Men of thirty would pay three hundred, men of fifty would pay almost seven hundred. And if the man was older and married, they would pay thousands. Anything to get their hands on Demeter.
Damon paid the one hundred up front, and had his wicked way with Demeter. Loved the feel of the boy's smooth shoulders, supple belly, full thighs. Loved the long moans and high whimpers. Loved the boy's leaking cock and hot hole.
When the time passed and the two were well sated, Damon gave Demeter two hundred more. At this, the boy-whore rose an eyebrow. "More?"
"Just a question," the vampire whispered.
"Anything, sweetie," Demeter grinned, folding his payment into his wallet.
"How old are you?"
Demeter grinned, but Damon knew a hollow smile when he saw one. "Nineteen."
Damon leaned in and locked eyes with the working man, "Now, how old are you?"
"Sixteen," the brunet answered, compelled.
The vampire knew, right there as Demeter left, he had a type.
The voice in his head would always be there, always watching. While Damon tried to drown it out with liquor in the fifties, marijuana in the sixties, ecstasy in the seventies, cocaine in the eighties, and heroin in the nineties, all it took was a glance at the right boy, the right time, the right moment, and Damon was lost again.
Damon tried to understand why one part of him would only charm women from twenty to as old as forty, yet the ones who drove him wild were boys as young as fifteen, men as young as twenty. Damon was almost one hundred and sixty four when he finally found Jeremy.
Jeremy was sixteen, boyish in grin and gait. Defiant til the end, the perfect mixture of Katherine and every boy-harlot the vampire had ever come across. Thick hair, bright eyes, pale skin, and young, so young. Damon tried to focus on Elena, tried to focus on the rivalry he had with Stefan, the friendship he had with Sage. But, his thoughts would always go to Jeremy.
That night, a cool night in September, when Jeremy leaned in and kissed Damon flat on the mouth, the vampire couldn't take it anymore.
You could have him, that voice would whisper. Take him. He could be yours.
"He should decide that," Damon would whisper, shake his head. "It's Jeremy's choice."
Nothing you can't manipulate.
"No," the vampire rubbed his temples. "No. I'm not going to make him another victim."
"Who says I was a victim?"
Damon, wild eyed and hungry – so hungry – looked up to see Jeremy waiting, back pressed against the closed door. Damon heard the click of the lock, and he looked up at the boy.
God, what a beautiful boy. It wasn't just the boy's hazy eyes and supple hands, it was everything Jeremy was. The naïve little brother, the quiet friend, the handy ally, the strong hunter, the loud adult. Everything.
"Who says I wouldn't want to be with you?" Jeremy soothed, walking towards Damon. "Who says I wouldn't want to do anything with you?"
Damon watched as Jeremy plopped down – all arms and legs – next to him on the mattress. "After all the fighting, all the killing, all the hard work, you expect me not to want something I wouldn't have to suffer for?"
Damon didn't stop Jeremy from kissing him again, and again, and again. Didn't stop Jeremy from pushing him into the mattress and straddling his hips. And his heart began pounding as he felt Jeremy's lips – smooth and pliant lips – move against his. And Damon returned those movements, the heated press of their lips, the incredible grind of their mouths. His hands slid up Jeremy's thighs, hips, sides and combing into the boy's hair. He needed to keep them there.
Another kiss before Jeremy separated their mouths. "Damon,..." the boy whimpered.
Damon felt that hunger rise and explode throughout his body. Felt that hunger come alive in his eyes and his fangs, and used the hot strength it gave him to maneuver over Jeremy, move the boy under him. Damon couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, shouldn't stop. He kissed, and bit, and licked into the boy's mouth. Ripped off Jeremy's shirt and pressed against the boy's belly, pinched the boy's nipples, listened with a wicked, wicked grin as Jeremy moaned, loud and clear.
This is wrong, his brain – his human instincts – argued.
But so, so right, his vampiric spirit stated.
Damon could account the young men he's had throughout his long existence. The boy-harlot, Demeter. The farmhand, Joseph. The Italian immigrant, Giovanni. The heir, Michael. All of them smooth skinned, long limbed, strong and loud, and free-spirited. Everything Jeremy was. But, Jeremy was so much better.
When the sun rose the next morning, Damon's room smelled of sweat and sex. His bedside lamp was shattered on the floor, his bedsheets crumpled and messy, ripped and covered in drying come. Damon was sated and full – full of blood, full of satisfaction, and every craving he's ever had was gone. Whether it was temporary or permanent, he wasn't sure.
Damon looked down at Jeremy, still in deep sleep. Hair curling at the ends, cheeks flushed, lips full and bruised, and his arms wrapped around Damon's waist. Damon leaned in and kissed the boy's head, listening as Jeremy slowly came into the waking world.
"Morning," the boy murmured before kissing Damon's jaw.
"Good morning," the vampire replied.
He held on a little tighter to Jeremy, listened as the boy's heart relaxed as he returned to slumber. And that hunger returned soon enough. That need to kiss, and touch, and fuck and take. Damon woke Jeremy as he moved the boy below him. Moved in to kiss him, held onto the boy's hand while his other hand prepped the boy for another round.
That voice was gone for a while, and for that time, for the moments Damon just held onto Jeremy's hand, he felt at peace.