Crack!fic (because obviously this will never happen), written a couple of weeks ago. Turns out, I have a horrible case of writer's block and it's eating my insides out. God, and I'm dramatic. This is annoyingly short and poorly written. But I needed to get it out.

Title from little bit - lykke li.

i think i'm a little bit, a little bit.

"Take off your clothes," he demands as he's just let himself into her house.

From her spot on the couch, Caroline leans back as far as she can but still can't see him until he's just in front of her. "Excuse me?" She asks in her all too innocent voice, spoon against her tongue as she swipes away the remainder of ice cream from it. Her head falls back against the back of the couch. He's standing right over her, hands braced on either side of her head. She looks up at him with her doe eyes, all sparkly and too much green and blue together at once.

He rolls his eyes and feigns annoyance. He looks back down at her, "I said take off your clothes."

She laughs and laughs and laughs, and midway chuckle, she asks, "Excuse me?"

"I am completely serious here, Blondie." She's standing up now on the other side of the couch, facing him, ice cream stuck on the corner of her mouth, and she's trying to fix her camisole just right.

"Why on earth would I ever take my clothes off for you?" And the way he looks back at her, stares at her, makes her second guess her idea to stay home all day and shed a few tears and drown her sorrows in ice cream and good TV. She also regrets not changing out of her pajamas.

"Because, you're like feeling things, you're sad. And you need break up sex." He pauses, contemplates more, "Trust, Blondie, you need this."

Her hand to mouth expression is to stifle her laugh, but it doesn't work. "Damon, break up sex usually happens between the two parties involved in the relationship – not that I condone it at all because, uh, standards – not between the sad girl and her overly exuberant friend." She tries to tell him on a serious note, does not want to delve into uncharted waters.

He walks around the couch, stands just in front of her. "Take off your clothes." He says, looking right into her eyes, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Come on," he says pulling at the drawstring on her pajama pants.

And because sometimes she still finds herself smitten by him:

"I need this?" She asks, mostly herself. "I need this." She confirms to both him and herself. "I really," she takes in a sharp breath when he runs the back of his index finger down the side of her neck, "do." And she does not mean to shudder at the chuckle rumbling deep through his chest.

He slowly takes her face in his hands, so gently she's not sure he's ever been like this before, and kisses her cheeks, then the corner of her mouth, before covering her lips with his. The moan he releases from the back of her throat embarrasses her only slightly.


"I told you," he says when they're finished. She only laughs and tries to finish watching About a Boy.