Forget The Silver Screen Tonight

Tonight will be different, she decides.

"Not on the neck", she'll tell him when he leans down. Try and keep her sanity a little while longer.

"But that's my favorite place," he'll pout, the corner of his lips turning down in a way that will remind her he's more boy than man. But he's more monster than boy. Most times she's never sure which.

"I know," she'll soothe him, the terror making inroads through her veins, mixing with the arousal. The smell of blood always makes her a little wet, or maybe it's the other way round. Maybe there's always a copper tang in the air when she's wet. Most times, she's never sure which, "but it's hard to hide. I can't wear those hideous scarves throughout summer. I have a reputation to keep, you know."

Sometimes, when she thinks about it, she thinks she's that high school girl from her books. The one sad enough to be dating the older guy who's only with her because she's good in bed. She is good in bed. He's probably had better though. So she's mostly just a metaphor.

"So where then?" his eyes will gleam, the monster in him (or maybe it's the boy in him this time) sated with just the thought of marking another part of her body, claiming another inch of her soul skin.

She'll feel a slight pang of something like regret, because she's never been as beautiful as Elena, and now, she'll never be as beautiful as Elena. 'Damaged goods', her English teacher would say, talking about some story written a long time ago, 'damaged goods, they called her in the streets'. He probably lived in that story, a long time ago. Maybe he still lives in that story somewhere, she thinks occasionally, when she's completing her English assignments and can afford to be poetic.

(Katherine, he whispers sometimes, his hair plastered to his face, his cock still inside her, Katherine. She must have been some kind of a goddess in his time, Caroline decides, his reverence mingling with the sweat on her skin. An old goddess, with statues and worshippers to her name. (Katherine. It's a pretty name).

"Here," she'll say provocatively, opening herself to him, touching her inner thigh, hoping he doesn't see her hand shake. "Here," she'll say again, make it something it's not, won't mention it's the one place no one has seen, will see. She'll trace the skin with her finger, move a thumb to her clit, act like she knows what she's doing. Like she didn't learn it from a porn movie that Tyler secretly made them all watch in the Lockwood mansion once. She's damned if she'll let anyone else see the scars.

"Well, aren't you the kinky one." he'll smile. Or something. Whatever the upward turn of his lip signifies on his face. She's never very sure, "you weren't made for this one-horse town, sweet Caroline". Her daddy used to call her that, used to sing that song sometimes. She never wants to be called that again.

He'll look at her, and she'll look down, avoid his eyes, keep her thoughts hers for just a little while longer. Don't look too deep into those angel eyes, the record will blast. Don't mistake coincidence for fate, LOST taught her.

"Haven't I proven it yet?" she'll fan her hair like that, bite her lip just so. Borrow words from books she's half read, from movies she's missed the beginning of, make it sound like they're hers, "my bad."

"You want to make it up to me?" he'll lie back, arms crossed against her headrest; cock straining, eyes hard. He's achingly beautiful.

She'll slither down then, touch her tongue to his cock. Lose her innocence in front of her stuffed toys, her princess desk, her history homework, her childhood blanket, "is this sufficient repentance, Mr. Salvatore."

His breath will shorten a little, she'll feel something akin to triumph, something akin to loss (she's never sure which), "well, if it's the best you got Miss Forbes ..."

She'll lave him with her tongue, probably get it wrong, probably won't compare to the women through the years, "you're a hard task-master."

He'll look at her then, smirk, "you ain't seen nothing, love."

Don't say that, she won't say, don't say that.

She'll make him come with her tongue and teeth, swallow because she wants to, swallow because he wants her to (sometimes she's not sure which). The sound at the back of his throat will stay with her all night. I hate you, she won't say. You're beautiful when you come, she won't say.

He'll pull her up then, flip her around at a speed her mind won't register, make her beg, touch her in places she blushed about a year ago.

"You're beautiful when you come," he'll whisper against her skin. Breathe hard, when he doesn't need to breathe at all.

She'll turn her head away then; keep her sanity just a little while longer.

(Maybe tomorrow, she'll run, hide, scream. Tonight, she'll stay. "Not on the neck", she'll tell him).