Damon Salvatore x Katherine Pierce | Fake Dating AU | Chaos, Sexual Tension, Vengeance, Smut

Part 1: Terms of the Game

“This is a terrible idea,” Damon drawled, swirling bourbon in his glass as he sprawled across the Salvatore leather couch.

Katherine stood in front of him, hands on hips, heels too high for war, but perfect for manipulation.
“Oh come on, Damon. Since when do you say no to trouble?”

“I don’t say no to trouble,” he said, smirk slow and dangerous. “I say no to you.”

“Cute.” She leaned in, voice low. “I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend. For one night. Just long enough to make Asher think I’ve moved on.”

Asher. The vampire lord who burned three of her safehouses and once forced Damon to drink vervain-laced absinthe in 1863.

“Oh him,” Damon sat up. “Why didn’t you lead with that? I’ve been dying to throw a stake through his jaw.”

Katherine smiled, slow and sharp. “So we’re in agreement.”

“Hardly. I want terms.”

“Fine.”

“I get to pick the car, the tux, and the safe word in case I snap and bite someone.”

“Deal,” she said sweetly. “As long as I get to choose the level of public affection.”

He raised a brow. “How high are we talking?”

Katherine purred, “Let’s just say… convincingly filthy.”

Damon grinned.

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Part 2: The Performance

The gala was held in an ancient estate overlooking the cliffs of Marseille. Gold chandeliers. Blood champagne. Vampires in couture.

And then there was them.

Damon in a midnight-black tux, tie undone, that dangerous glint in his eye. Katherine in a red dress that looked like a sin made silk.

“Smile,” she whispered, looping her arm through his as they entered. “You’re madly in love with me, remember?”

“I’d rather be madly unconscious.”

She laughed, and it sounded like promise and poison.

“Too late.”

They swept through the crowd like fire and gasoline. Every look turned their way. She made sure Asher saw. Damon made sure Asher noticed.

“Why are you sitting in my lap?” Damon muttered under his breath.

“Because he’s watching,” she murmured. “And because your thighs are comfortable.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re enjoying it.”

He hated how right she was.

The real chaos began on the dance floor.

Asher approached, smirking. “Katerina. Damon. Didn’t expect to see you together.”

Katherine batted her lashes. “Well, you left such a void in my bed. Damon’s been generous in filling it.”

Damon smiled like a blade. “I like a challenge.”

Asher’s eyes darkened. Damon’s hand slid to Katherine’s hip.

Fake. This was fake. So why was his pulse climbing?

Katherine looked up at him, mock-loving. “Dance with me?”

He didn’t say yes. He just moved.

Their bodies collided in a slow tango of tension and teeth. It was supposed to be for show.

But her hand on his chest wasn’t acting.

And the way he whispered her name when no one was listening — wasn’t fake either.

Part 3: The Fracture

They argued in the courtyard, beneath a moon that looked too smug.

“You didn’t have to touch me like that,” Damon hissed.

Katherine whirled. “I thought the whole point was to make it convincing!”

“That’s the thing with you, isn’t it? You make everything look like a game, even when it’s not.”

Her voice dropped. “Don’t pretend you hated it.”

He stepped in close.

“That’s the problem. I didn’t.”

Silence.

The air buzzed with something electric. Not hate. Not just lust. Something messier.

Katherine stared at him like she wanted to bite and cry at once.

“I thought you didn’t care anymore,” she whispered.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Until tonight.”

She grabbed his collar.

He grabbed her waist.

And then they were kissing like old gods had cursed them for waiting this long.

Her back hit the stone wall. His jacket was gone. Her leg curled around his hip, dragging him closer.

Katherine bit his lip. Damon growled against her throat.

“Still faking it?” she breathed.

“I will never fake this,” he rasped.

Part 4: The Fire Breaks Loose

He carried her inside like a man possessed. Not to a bed. The bar counter in the estate library. Marble. Cold. Perfect.

Clothes vanished like confessions.

Her laugh was breathless against his throat. His hands were everywhere — selfish, reverent, furious.

“You’re not allowed to be this good at fake dating,” she gasped as he kissed down her spine.

“I’m not faking anymore.”

She tugged him up by the collar. “Then prove it.”

And he did.

Slow. Then fast. Then slow again — just to torture her. Just to make her say his name like it meant something.

It did.

Somewhere between vengeance and lust, the fire had turned real.

They didn’t stop until sunrise.

And when she woke up in his shirt, bruised, smiling, ruined — she didn’t ask what it meant.

Because for once, she didn’t have to.