Title: filled this void with things unreal (1/1)
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries (tv show, not book)
Pairing: Elena/Damon/Stefan (kind of)
Prompt: Stefan/Damon/Elena - I wanna feel what he felt, I wanna touch what he touched, I wanna go where he's been, I want you and I want him
Rating: Light M or R
Spoilers: Nothing specific.
Disclaimer: The Vampire Diaries and its characters belong to the CW, not me. This story is purely meant to entertain. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: This is a response to the following prompt: Stefan/Damon/Elena - I wanna feel what he felt, I wanna touch what he touched, I wanna go where he's been, I want you and I want him.
A/N: If you've left me a comment recently, I'm sorry that it's going to take me a while to get back to you. I will, but it's going to take a little time. I used what little free time I had to write this.
Con crit is always welcome. To lurkers and commenters alike, thank you.
filled this void with things unreal
Since he killed Zach, there is no one to tend the garden at the old house. They could hire (or compel) someone, but somehow they never do, and Damon occasionally spends an afternoon kneeling in the grass, letting the sun whisper warm secrets against his skin and hair. Though he'll never again have a tan, he likes the steady heat on his neck as he bends to his work.
He doesn't bother wearing gloves. Despite his vampiric healing powers, he still feels pain. Thorns pierce his hands as he trims back the rose bushes. The sting and bite don't bother him; on the contrary, they remind him he still feels, even if he isn't alive in the strictest sense of the word. Bleeding, he slides his fingers deep into the thirsty ground, coaxing roots with a lover's patience as he pulls weeds.
There's something nearly poetic about his blood being stolen to consecrate the dark earth trapped beneath his crescent fingernails. Causing destruction, breaking things and people - he has an unquestionable talent for those. But this, this bringing a bit of order to an insignificant patch of the world, it satisfies him in a way he doesn't understand; in a way he couldn't explain if someone asked him to. The thought raises a smirk. It slips away as his ears separate the swish and sway of a breeze through the trees from the sounds coming from Stefan's bedroom.
"Stefan," she murmurs on a thick gasp, the ache in her voice unmistakable, mirroring the one burning in his gut.
Damon can't actually see them, but that hardly makes a difference: eyes slammed shut, he can almost feel the heat of Elena's cunt as she snaps her hips up into Stefan, reaching, grasping...
Fingers savage now, Damon thrusts them into the earth, clawing at whatever he can reach. Trying to ignore his own desperate hunger - for them both.
Stefan doesn't speak, but Damon hears him brush Elena's hair back from her damp face. A low grunt; Stefan's brow furrowed in pleasure-pain (Damon conjures this image from a yellowed memory tucked away since their days with Katherine); a keening cry; then the scent of salt and bleach. Completion, but not for him. His cock still lies heavy and untouched.
Even that he could forgive, if he just had the chance to lie with them now, to press a kiss to the tiny mole that sits low on Stefan's back, and to nip at Elena's sweat-slick shoulder, before tugging a crisp sheet over their cooling bodies. He could fill his arms with them both, weaving their limbs together. Sheltering. Possessing.
Instead he sits on the outside of a perfect circle once again, alone as ever, his hands empty of everything but dirt. Suddenly his afternoon chore seems less an act of discipline or creation - and more one of desperation.