Series: The Vampire Diaries (television series verse)
Word Count: 2,162
Characters, Pairings: Damon/Elena, also mentions Stefan/Elena
Summary: She could get used to this.
Warnings: some language, sexual tension, romance, mentions of sexual fantasies.
Notes: Spoilers for 3x01-3x06. Yay for sexy thoughts!
She could get used to this, she admits to herself.
She could get used to the way his gaze lingers on her when they’re in the same room. She could get used to his smug smirk, and she could get used to that genuine smile of his that she knows he reserves for moments when he is truly happy. She could get used to that look of concern in his eyes when he asks if she is okay.
He surprises her more often than not: she could get used to the quiet moments of tenderness, the gentleness that he displays when he touches her, the kindness unveiled when he does something nice for her.
He’s willing to follow her around the world while she chases after Stefan, who is no longer the Stefan that she used to know. He’s willing to help her, and he doesn’t try to shield her from the ugliness that is not part of her reality. Others would probably consider it an act of cruelty, but she considers it an act of generosity.
His constant need (impulse, urge) to keep an eye on her is slightly annoying, because she’s not a little girl anymore and she can take care of herself, no matter what he thinks (except only she knows that they both know she can’t—not in this world of vampires and werewolves and dopplegangers and boyfriends playing deadly games of hide-and-go-seek). She is also grateful, because if not for Damon, she knows that she probably wouldn’t still be alive (she’s said enough goodbyes to know that she doesn’t want him to have to say such a word to her).
The hard line of his body (muscle subtly shifting beneath skin) is surprisingly warm against her own—she feels him before she sees him, and once her eyes are open, she pretends to be more offended than she actually is.
Damon in her bed (holding her, loving her) is something that she could probably get used to as well, but she kills the thought before it can materialize any further.
She could get used to him tilting his head just like that when she looks at him sometimes (in curiosity, perhaps; in invitation, perhaps). She could get used to him keeping her from breaking; she could get used to him pulling her back from the edge of the unknown that frightens her so badly. She could get used to him being there for her when Stefan isn’t (and when he’s made it clear that he doesn’t want to be—not anymore).
It’s almost funny how things between them can be so easy-going sometimes: she could get used to the way he makes her laugh and she could get used to the playful nudges and their banter. There’s a sort of comfort in all of this, with him.
She can attest to the fact that she has gotten used to his occasional (or frequent, depending on his mood) erratic, irrational, reckless behavior. There are times that he still frightens her, although admittedly, her fear over what she knows he is capable of pales in comparison to what she now wonders Stefan is capable of. She wonders what this says about her own state of mind and her own emotions.
There is a certain calm before and after his storm, but during, it’s one hell of a whirlwind. There are moments when she thinks she wishes he were someone else, something else—
“I am not Stefan! How about you stop trying to turn me into him?!”
--And then she realizes (remembers) that he will always, always be Damon, no matter what.
Truth be told, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
She could get used to his stubborn streak, too, which runs about as wide and deep as her own.
And she isn’t apologizing, no matter what he thinks (although she imagines she will later, when she thinks he’s forgotten about it).
She could get used to him being there for her even when she tries to convince herself that she doesn’t need him (even though some part of her knows that she probably always will), and she could get used to him apologizing and making up for not being there when she does need him.
He never quite lets her hit the ground even when she worries otherwise: she could get used to him catching her when she falls; she could get used to him helping her get back on her feet. She could get used to him just knowing that something is wrong with her, even when he’s god-only-knows how many miles away from her.
He leaves sometimes, when he’s angry with her. He takes off without a word to blow off some steam because that’s just part of who he is. It’s the vampire-Damon version of a childish temper-tantrum, she supposes.
Logically, she knows it isn’t his fault that she winds up face-to-face with Klaus again. She knows it isn’t his fault that Klaus compels Stefan to bite her, and she knows that it isn’t his fault that Stefan’s humanity gets turned off—shut down, like some computer.
She knows it isn’t his fault that she winds up in a hospital bed with an IV catheter in her arm, draining the blood that Klaus now needs (she briefly entertains the thought that she would rather be dead), but that doesn’t stop her from asking him, “Where were you, Damon?” later. Later, when she’s back at his home, sitting in his chair and drinking his bourbon.
The regret is scrawled across his face, but mostly it’s there in his eyes. He promises to never leave her again, and she feels a sense of relief in spite of everything. She believes him.
She could get used to him playing the role of her savior… but he’s never really fit into the ‘Prince Charming’ mold, which is just fine by her.
She needs him to be exactly who he is, and that in itself is enough.
She could get used to his proximity. She could get used to the way his fingers curl around her own—gentle and undemanding, but insistent at the same time. She could get used to the feel of her palm against his chest, over his unbeating heart. She could get used to the heat that flares in his eyes when they’re closer than they probably should be.
The fire in his ice-blue gaze ignites a flame low in her belly: she could get used to that, too—the way her breath catches and her body unconsciously (or perhaps consciously, it isn’t like she even knows anymore) sways towards his. She knows there’s always been a spark between them, even from the beginning, when she refused to acknowledge it.
It’s not like she hasn’t imagined his hands on her body before now. It’s not like she hasn’t woken up in the middle of the night before and gotten herself off while fantasizing about him, imagining his fingers circling her clit and pushing inside of her, trying to make herself forget that they’re her own instead.
His breath against her cheek sends a shiver down her spine, and she can remember when she used to recoil from him—she can remember when he’d cause her to tremble from fear rather than from desire. She can’t recall exactly when all of that changed. She figures it doesn’t really matter anymore.
She imagines what his hands would feel like in other places – kneading her breasts, sliding along her sides, gripping at her hips as he slides into her – and she forgets how to breathe for a moment; the way he whispers against her ear doesn’t help. She can feel herself becoming aroused; she can feel the wetness between her legs, and she idly wonders if he can smell it—if he can smell her.
She imagines that he would take her slowly at first, his tongue teasing at her clit while his fingers slid in and out of her at a deliberately languid pace. She imagines he’d push into her inch by inch and he’d take his precious time until she would be able to convince him otherwise—perhaps with a look or a kiss or the feel of her nails raking down his back.
His fingers tighten around her wrist minutely, and when he presses even closer against her, she knows that she isn’t the only one affected by his little lesson about vampires’ hearts.
Her fantasy suddenly changes, and she imagines him taking her hard and fast from behind, his lips against the shell of her ear, the curve of her jaw, fangs dragging along the column of her neck. She imagines him teasing her clit with his fingers while he shoves into her again and again until she’s be shaking and writhing and struggling to muffle her cries of pleasure.
She knows she’ll have this little fantasy on repeat when she takes a shower later, and when she climbs into bed tonight. She used to feel more guilty about it, but said guilt lessens with every passing day; perhaps it is because her Stefan is no longer here. Perhaps it is because this Stefan does not desire her and she knows Damon does. Perhaps it is a mixture of all of these things, and perhaps it is none of these things. Perhaps it’s something deeper and she’s just refusing to see it for what it is.
“I’ll do whatever it is you need me to do, Elena.”
She could get used to this dizzying need that she feels for him.
Doesn’t mean that she should, but she is well aware of the fact that she does a lot of things that she ‘shouldn’t’ do, so why should that change now?
She could get used to glaring daggers at the other women that Damon chooses to flirt with—nevermind that this was her idea and he’s only doing what she asked him to do. She could get used to the jealousy bubbling up from within her (the green-eyed monster has shown its ugly face), even though she knows that there’s really no reason for it, and besides, she’s certain that the pouty look does nothing for her.
She can do without Stefan’s input: his faux teasing does nothing more than anger her and remind her that this Stefan has no sense of tact, and doesn’t care whom he hurts or how badly he hurts them.
She tells him that she isn’t jealous, but she can tell that he believes her about as much as she believes herself; she’s never been a good liar, and in that respect, Stefan can still see right through her. She hates that.
She walks away in a huff, partly because she doesn’t want to be around Stefan right now and mostly because Damon’s (fake) flirting is annoying her more than it should. She does not verbally pronounce any blame upon anyone for her sudden change in demeanor, but judging by the look in Stefan’s eyes, she doesn’t really have to.
She expects the rest of the evening to go as planned, but of course it doesn’t. She doesn’t count on Alaric’s car catching fire, and she doesn’t count on having to be the one to save Stefan for once. She knows he’ll give her hell for it later—he’ll call her weak and pathetic, but she’ll cross that bridge when she comes to it.
For the time being, she’ll attempt to talk Damon out of tending to her burns, because she’s not some invalid and she can do that just fine by herself. However, he insists and she caves, and allows him to apply antibacterial ointment to the burns on her left cheek.
She mentions the flirting before she can stop herself, and is surprised when he answers her; she’s even more surprised to find out that Rebekah didn’t fall for his lines or his smile.
“Thought you were too drunk to notice?” he inquires.
“I was faking most of it,” she admits.
“So was I,” he answers, and she falls silent, because she’s not sure what to say and she’s not sure that anything needs to be said at all.
She could get used to him playing doctor on her behalf. She could get used to the way his eyes say more than his lips do; she could get used to not walking away from him and she could get used to him looking at her like she’s more important to him than he’s able to put into words.
She has gotten used to this odd thing between them—this tumultuous dance between friendship and desire and tension and comfort and something deeper that she knows the name for but simply refuses to say it. She’s acclimated to this odd unnamed relationship they share.
She could get used to loving him, she admits to herself.
What she refuses to admit is that she already is.
This one flowed so easily when I started writing it. I love these two together!