title: like confessing a murder
fandom: the vampire diaries
disclaimer: not mine.
word count: 633
summary: Katherine never asks herself why she doesn’t fight him.
Fear, familiar companion, consumes her as she makes a mad dash for the door. Slams against an invisible barrier – trapped! – and feels a little something die inside her (again).
Drowning on hell and woe, Katherine’s mind implodes on a single thought: it can’t be!
“I’ve missed you.”
Alaric – only not – locks eyes with her and smiles, dark and predatory, and cups her face with troubling familiarity. Caresses her cheeks and stares at her in a way that makes the small hairs on the back of her neck and arms stand on end.
And with that one word, his smile deepens, lines crinkling around his eyes. Mocking her.
Mockity mockity mock mock mock.
He will never stop tormenting her. Even now, possessing the body of another man, he seeks her demise and kicks her into the grave.
Katherine never asks herself why she doesn’t fight him.
On the face of it, the answer is simple. It is fear–
he’s all the little things that go bump in the night.
It is self-preservation–
you cannot battle the devil on his turf and expect to live.
It’s not that every glance, every touch sets her on edge, drives her insane. It’s not that she wants to taste him, wants to slick her mouth around him, wants to suck him down, wants him to be the one inside her, wants to scream, wants to cry and beg, wants to hurt him, wants him to hurt her, wants him, wants him–
He continues to stare at her, full of knowing and mirth and all the world’s ugly, and pulls at Alaric’s worn, grey shirt before it ends up discarded on the floor.
(Katherine doesn’t dare move.)
Her dress soon follows.
“I hate you,” she whispers in his ear, his smile dark against her cheek. A light, breathless noise she cannot stifle leaves her when his nails dig into her skin.
“But you love this,” he taunts and lets his nails scrape lower, longer, and–
“Fuck,” she hisses, as he pushes a little further in, thrusts a little deeper just to hear her gasp, hear her scream.
It only makes the pain rawer and that more real when he kisses her: sharp, metallic, and bloody red.
One day, one (or both) will die.
It is prophesised, so justified. Violence has been brewing between them since the day they met. Smouldering, boiling, and blood must answer blood.
So when he calls her a ‘whore’ with another man’s voice, she forgets that it’s really him and without thought, slaps him. Sends his head snapping off to the side. His bottom lip cuts open and bleeds before he turns his gaze on her once more, noting the barely suppressed terror rolling off her in waves. Grinning wild and manic with stained teeth, he hits her back. Hard.
Sends her tumbling to the floor and coughing up red.
Blood must answer blood.
Katherine stops screaming soon enough.
“I could do far, far worse to you, even in this body.”
Slowly, his fingers dance up her arms and prepare to strangle her neck – crush her larynx, snap her spine – like out-stretched vines. He takes his time and waits until she is numb from satisfaction-turning-exhaustion and dread.
Klaus is very considerate.
If she shuts the door, he will open it. If she runs, he will chase.
That’s the little game they play.
“I’ve missed you.”
His breath is a faint whisper upon her back, his lips chapped and rough (and not his own).
Delirious, her hips arch, try to follow the path of his experienced hand and she hates that she’s still wet for him, the idea of him.
She’s his little (lover, toy, whore) in both body and thought.