damon/alaric, brad/ray comment fic
May. 25th, 2010 03:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
withimpunity Comment fic wot I have written lately, for this prompty type meme thang.
This isn't good cop, bad cop. This is fag and New Yorker.
Next to Damon, the teacher is getting twitchy and twitchy doesn't usually bode well for anyone, so Damon figures it would probably be best for everyone involved if he hurried the torture part of this little adventure up.
The subject of their interrogation screams out when Damon pulls the stake out roughly and shoves it back in, just inches from his heart. "That's gotta hurt," Damon grins, ignoring Alaric's snort of disgust.
"Look, man." Alaric says, crossing and uncrossing his arms. "Just tell us what we asked and we'll let you go. No one has to die tonight." Damon's eyebrows knit together, his mouth pulled tightly into one corner; Alaric glares.
The vampire tied to the chair before them laughs, hot and bitter, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. "You assholes really think I'm going to fall for this good cop bad cop shit?" Then he unexpectedly leaps from the chair, breaking out of the rope someone obviously didn't tie tightly enough, pouncing on top of Alaric, his fangs breaching Alaric's neck before Damon can reach them to pull him off.
Damon growls, all feral and blood rage, red veins spiderwebbing out across his face as he tears the vampire off of Alaric with one hand and throws him across the building, slamming him against the wall hearing a support beam crack somewhere overhead.
"You don't get it," He snarls, fingers wrapped tight around the vampire's windpipe, preventing any sound from coming out, any breath from going in. "This isn't good cop, bad cop. This is a guy who wants revenge for his dead vampire wife and well, me. And its been a long time -- too long, actually -- since I've eviscerated someone."
"Damon." He hears Alaric's voice behind him, a little weak, but still persistent. Damon sighs, rolls his eyes. "Oh, fine.
The vampire's screams echo through the empty building as Damon shoves the stake into his heart, his body falling lifeless onto the concrete floor. Alaric is covering the side of his neck with his left hand, giving him an light, easy smile, as if to say, "Oops, my bad."
Damon's jaw is set and tight, his eyes are bright as usual, but a little colder. "You know, f I could have tied the fucking rope myself I would have, but I have this nasty allergic reaction to vervain, maybe you've noticed."
"Jesus, what crawled up your ass and died?" Alaric laughs, wiping his hand on the back of his jeans. Damon's eyes follow the streak of blood against denim, nostrils flaring. Alaric catches his eye, wriggles his ring finger at him pointedly. Damon narrows his eyes and lunges, grabs hold of Alaric's shoulders, shoving him against a wall about twenty feet away. Alaric's head cracks against the wall, his vision doubling for a few seconds.
"Yeah," Damon bites out, a terrifying grin stretching across his face. "I know. As long as you're wearing the ring you can't die." His eyes drift away from Alaric's, his fingers following his gaze, brushing over the shallow wound on Alaric's neck, smearing through the last remaining drops of blood. "But maybe you forgot about the part where I don't play well with others, especially when it comes to sharing."
Alaric's eyes widen, his expression lighting up with an unspoken oh as the implication of Damon's words suddenly hit him. "Damon?"
Damon bites his bottom lip and shakes his head before he turns around to dispose of the body. "Just...make sure the damn ropes are tight next time."
Damon would knows Alaric would never let him -- he'd never ask, either. He doesn't have a death wish, contrary to popular belief. But that doesn't mean Alaric can just go flaunting it around, like it doesn't matter. Like anyone can step up and have a taste because hey, it won't kill him. That's all that matters right.
He doesn't understand yet, but he will soon. No one touches Damon's things.
"You ready?" Brad's got one foot planted on the brick behind him, arm hanging by his side, flicking ashes onto the pavement. The streets are dark, but not quiet, the loud buzz of hustlers and dealers, whores and junkies, all out trying to get their fix, dirty up the city more than it already is.
Ray's not still, never still, mouth always running, feet always moving. Sometimes Brad just wants to grab him, hold him down, see how long it takes for Ray to crack. Sometimes he does.
"Fuck, Brad. I was born ready." Ray grins at him through a haze of grey smoke and takes one last hit off the cigarette pinched between his fingers before killing it, stomping the butt with his boot. "Let's do it."
***
Ray likes the sound a bullet makes when it whizzes past his ear, all soft and wispy, makes his dick hard; likes the sound his hollow point makes when it hits the head of East Boston's child prostitution ring's brain even better.
"Did you see that?" Ray's hopping now, he's lit up, bouncing on the balls of his feet with blood on his hands and gun powder in his veins and its infectious. Brad can't help but feel it too, that thick, slow-building adrenaline rush taking him over, the big grin slipping onto his face. "We were on it like a motherfucker, Brad."
Ray digs his fingers around Brad's vest and shoves him up against the wall, feeling goddamn electric with the rush of a good job, a damn good job, opening Brad's mouth up with his tongue, sharing bruising, hard kisses in the shadowed safety of a back alley.
The bad guy is dead. It's a good fucking night.
This isn't good cop, bad cop. This is fag and New Yorker.
Next to Damon, the teacher is getting twitchy and twitchy doesn't usually bode well for anyone, so Damon figures it would probably be best for everyone involved if he hurried the torture part of this little adventure up.
The subject of their interrogation screams out when Damon pulls the stake out roughly and shoves it back in, just inches from his heart. "That's gotta hurt," Damon grins, ignoring Alaric's snort of disgust.
"Look, man." Alaric says, crossing and uncrossing his arms. "Just tell us what we asked and we'll let you go. No one has to die tonight." Damon's eyebrows knit together, his mouth pulled tightly into one corner; Alaric glares.
The vampire tied to the chair before them laughs, hot and bitter, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. "You assholes really think I'm going to fall for this good cop bad cop shit?" Then he unexpectedly leaps from the chair, breaking out of the rope someone obviously didn't tie tightly enough, pouncing on top of Alaric, his fangs breaching Alaric's neck before Damon can reach them to pull him off.
Damon growls, all feral and blood rage, red veins spiderwebbing out across his face as he tears the vampire off of Alaric with one hand and throws him across the building, slamming him against the wall hearing a support beam crack somewhere overhead.
"You don't get it," He snarls, fingers wrapped tight around the vampire's windpipe, preventing any sound from coming out, any breath from going in. "This isn't good cop, bad cop. This is a guy who wants revenge for his dead vampire wife and well, me. And its been a long time -- too long, actually -- since I've eviscerated someone."
"Damon." He hears Alaric's voice behind him, a little weak, but still persistent. Damon sighs, rolls his eyes. "Oh, fine.
The vampire's screams echo through the empty building as Damon shoves the stake into his heart, his body falling lifeless onto the concrete floor. Alaric is covering the side of his neck with his left hand, giving him an light, easy smile, as if to say, "Oops, my bad."
Damon's jaw is set and tight, his eyes are bright as usual, but a little colder. "You know, f I could have tied the fucking rope myself I would have, but I have this nasty allergic reaction to vervain, maybe you've noticed."
"Jesus, what crawled up your ass and died?" Alaric laughs, wiping his hand on the back of his jeans. Damon's eyes follow the streak of blood against denim, nostrils flaring. Alaric catches his eye, wriggles his ring finger at him pointedly. Damon narrows his eyes and lunges, grabs hold of Alaric's shoulders, shoving him against a wall about twenty feet away. Alaric's head cracks against the wall, his vision doubling for a few seconds.
"Yeah," Damon bites out, a terrifying grin stretching across his face. "I know. As long as you're wearing the ring you can't die." His eyes drift away from Alaric's, his fingers following his gaze, brushing over the shallow wound on Alaric's neck, smearing through the last remaining drops of blood. "But maybe you forgot about the part where I don't play well with others, especially when it comes to sharing."
Alaric's eyes widen, his expression lighting up with an unspoken oh as the implication of Damon's words suddenly hit him. "Damon?"
Damon bites his bottom lip and shakes his head before he turns around to dispose of the body. "Just...make sure the damn ropes are tight next time."
Damon would knows Alaric would never let him -- he'd never ask, either. He doesn't have a death wish, contrary to popular belief. But that doesn't mean Alaric can just go flaunting it around, like it doesn't matter. Like anyone can step up and have a taste because hey, it won't kill him. That's all that matters right.
He doesn't understand yet, but he will soon. No one touches Damon's things.
"You ready?" Brad's got one foot planted on the brick behind him, arm hanging by his side, flicking ashes onto the pavement. The streets are dark, but not quiet, the loud buzz of hustlers and dealers, whores and junkies, all out trying to get their fix, dirty up the city more than it already is.
Ray's not still, never still, mouth always running, feet always moving. Sometimes Brad just wants to grab him, hold him down, see how long it takes for Ray to crack. Sometimes he does.
"Fuck, Brad. I was born ready." Ray grins at him through a haze of grey smoke and takes one last hit off the cigarette pinched between his fingers before killing it, stomping the butt with his boot. "Let's do it."
***
Ray likes the sound a bullet makes when it whizzes past his ear, all soft and wispy, makes his dick hard; likes the sound his hollow point makes when it hits the head of East Boston's child prostitution ring's brain even better.
"Did you see that?" Ray's hopping now, he's lit up, bouncing on the balls of his feet with blood on his hands and gun powder in his veins and its infectious. Brad can't help but feel it too, that thick, slow-building adrenaline rush taking him over, the big grin slipping onto his face. "We were on it like a motherfucker, Brad."
Ray digs his fingers around Brad's vest and shoves him up against the wall, feeling goddamn electric with the rush of a good job, a damn good job, opening Brad's mouth up with his tongue, sharing bruising, hard kisses in the shadowed safety of a back alley.
The bad guy is dead. It's a good fucking night.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-25 09:11 pm (UTC)Also: mmmm, Damon/Alaric.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-26 08:42 am (UTC)Mmm indeed.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-26 06:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-26 08:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-26 08:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-26 07:16 pm (UTC)I love the good cop-bad cop scenes in this show, and how characters switch roles. And no one touches Damon's things, indeed.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-26 07:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-29 03:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-29 03:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-29 03:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-03 09:51 pm (UTC)