Series: The Vampire Diaries (television series verse)
Word Count: 2,148
Characters, Pairings: Damon/Elena, also mentions Stefan/Elena and a teensy bit of Elena/original female character.
Summary: maybe he left because she's too “high-maintenance” for him now; maybe he stayed because she's always been enough, and maybe that's all that matters (she doesn't want to think about it too much).
Warnings: sexual content, language.
Notes: General spoilers for season four. This was a prompt requested by fluffyfrolicker at the Elena Gilbert comment ficathon (part 2) here. Prompt was: Elena(/Damon): I need perpetual motion, perpetual sound to keep my thoughts away. It's incredibly late, but really, guys, I'm just desperately searching for inspiration.
She's discovered that when she's surrounded by flashing lights and warm (and willing) bodies and a pounding rhythm, it's a little easier to ignore the thousands of thoughts traveling through her mind at light-speed. It's a little easier to forget that the all-important choice that she made when she was still human amounted to all of nothing--
--Or perhaps not nothing, because while one brother is gone, taking some “time”, the other has remained by her side, insisting that he won't go anywhere unless she wants him to.
She should probably tell him to leave—to go find his brother and forget about her, but she knows if she did that, there would be an irrepairable sort of brokenness there that she wouldn't ever be able to shake for whatever reason.
(What denial, she knows the reason, always has.)
She's not here to think about that, though—she's not here to think about how Stefan can't deal with her vampirism and she's not here to recount the numerous times she's imagined Damon in her bed, taking Stefan's place (even when Stefan was right beside her, or lying on top of her, pushing carefully inside of her).
She's not here to think at all. She's here to have fun and to feed, and to allow herself a moment's distraction (because as soon as she's back at home and in her bed alone, the thoughts that she's been fighting so hard to keep at bay will come crashing upon her, and then what?).
There's a cute, leggy redhead dancing with a shorter blonde girl, and Elena thinks that if she turns on the charm, it'll be easy enough to lure her into a dark corner for a moment, or into the girl's bathroom; just by looking at her, Elena can tell that she's had a little too much to drink.
Male, female, it doesn't matter. She is indiscriminate, for the most part. Tonight, however, she finds herself specifically targeting women—puncturing soft skin with her fangs and letting her hands wander over gentle curves is a lovely distraction from fantasies involving lean muscle and calloused hands (seeking and finding and taking what she'd willingly give).
She never would have admitted all of this to herself if she were still human.
(She isn't human anymore.)
The girl's name is Leslie, and when Elena reaches for her hand and tugs her into the shadows, the pretty, vibrant girl with the curly red hair follows eagerly. When Elena runs her tongue along her neck, she shivers, and a twisted little thrill runs through Elena the moment that her tongue finds a pressure point. The thrum of Leslie's pulse is erratic, hypnotizing, and when Elena sinks her fangs into Leslie's flesh, she isn't quite as gentle as she'd originally intended to be.
Leslie doesn't seem to mind, though. Her fingers curl into Elena's hair and Elena almost smiles, gaze darting around the room. There are a few guys watching them, thinking that they're just a couple of hot girls making out. She'll let them think what they will.
And then she hears footsteps. He doesn't have to say a word for her to know that it's him. She can smell him, can see the smirk on his face before she even turns around to look at him.
“Yes?” She asks after she swallows, feeling a little blood trickle down her chin. She doesn't wipe it away.
“You're coming here more often lately,” he says, casual and unaccusing. “That's good—plenty to feed from. I see that you're taking advantage of that.”
Elena frowns, turns back to the redhead (who looks quite confused and slightly dazed at this point), and compels her to forget their encounter. Leslie wanders back into the crowd of sweaty, gyrating bodies and Elena is left to face Damon on her own.
“I came here to get away from everything, Damon,” she says pointedly, knowing that it won't really matter. Most of the time, Damon only listens to what he wants to hear.
“What a coincidence,” Damon smoothly replies, all sharp grins and sweet sarcasm. “so did I. But you're here, so we might as well get away from everything together, huh?”
They're tiptoeing around the real subject—avoiding talking about the missing corner of their triangle and the other, larger elephant in the room that she's been avoiding ever since she became a vampire and realized that she'd made the wrong choice. To think, it only took death and a rebirth of sorts to realize it.
But she won't say it. Not now. Just like he won't mention the brother that's abandoned them both for a second time.
She rolls her eyes and turns away. “Damon--”
His arms are around her before she can finish her sentence, and his breath is hot against her ear. “I know you're needing a distraction. Let me help you with that.” He tilts her head and licks the drying blood from her chin, and waves of electricity and heat sizzle down her spine, settling low in her belly and burning with such intensity that she cannot dismiss it even though she knows that she probably should. Her thoughts of him are partially why she's here, after all.
In spite of her better judgment, she finds herself dancing with him in a similar matter as she had the night of the frat party, except only tonight, there is no Bonnie tagging along to give her appaled looks. There is no-one here to glare at them or make scathing commentary.
Which is probably why she doesn't try to talk herself out of what happens next.
She doesn't go home alone, and she doesn't think twice about taking Damon upstairs and into her bedroom—into her bed. Her only warning is for him to be quiet, as Jeremy is sleeping only a couple of doors down, and this is the last thing that she wants to try to explain to him.
She doesn't want to think. She just wants to feel. To hear. To taste. To move. To take.
Damon starts off by trying to be sweet and gentle with her. Careful and considerate. She doesn't want that, not tonight. And she doesn't want to think of 'next time' and she doesn't want to be reminded of how Stefan always treated her as if she would break.
“I'm a vampire now,” she hisses, all but tearing his shirt off of him before leaning in for a rough kiss that is all tongues and heat and sharp fangs (and just a little blood). “You won't break me, so don't act like you might.”
One of the magnificent things about Damon is that he doesn't have to be told twice. Their clothes are scattered on her bedroom floor in the blink of an eye, and she's flat on her back a moment later, his fangs scraping along the shell of her ear and his fingers unhesitatingly pressing inside of her. His thumb is circling her clit and ohhh, she knows she's wetter than she's ever been and why hasn't this happened before now?
Oh, right. Not thinking about that. Not thinking, period.
She feels too rushed, too needy, and they've got all the time in the world to take it slow later (later, later, maybeprobablydefinitely). Slow is not what she wants or needs now, and she makes that fairly clear by growling and shoving him over so that he's the one on his back and she's the one on top, briefly stroking his erection before positioning herself and sinking down onto him.
Both of them groan and Damon's hips jerk, causing him to shove deepr inside of her, and her thighs quiver and she throbs. It's almost painful. Almost.
“I want more,” she breathes, and it's déjà-vu all over again, only better. This time, she's not talking about blood, but about him.
Heavy-lidded, he purrs, “Then take it.” A challenge. An invitation. A plea.
She answers by drawing back until only the head of his cock remains within her and then she slams back down again, breath rushing out of her in a keening moan. The rhythm she builds is a quick and unforgiving one—she knows that in spite of being a vampire, she'll probably be a little sore later and so will he, but she takes pride in that knowledge and relishes it.
Her hands move from his chest to the headboard, and his hands move from her breasts (fingers teasingly circling and pinching her nipples) to her hips, helping her keep the rhythm she's established, and she rather likes this, watching him watch her, blue-beyond-blue eyes filled with lust and deeper things (not thinking not thinking not thinking)--
His thumbs dig into her hips hard enough to bruise and it startles her, how good it feels, pain and pleasure mixing so that they are one and the same. Stefan had never--
No, that wouldn't be fair. This moment in time is all about Damon. About them. This choice is hers, damnit, and she's making the right one.
(It's right. Just not right now.
And what about now?)
She comes when he tangles his fingers into her hair and jerks her down to him, his fangs sharp and piercing her throat, making her writhe and the rhythm of their bodies is forgotten as she moans his name (his name) and clenches around him over and over again.
Damon comes in the middle of her own release, and the look on his face is surprisingly beautiful (he's vulnerable and open right now and it's one of those amazing things that she knows she'll carry with her forever because that's what her life is now—forever).
All in fun (greedily, teasingly), she lazily grinds her hips against his a couple more times, liking the way he whimpers and the way he pulses inside of her.
Then she carefully separates herself from him, disentangling their bodies and heading quietly into the bathroom. He quickly follows suit and as they briefly clean themselves up, he asks her the question that she doesn't really want to hear:
“Are you gonna wind up regretting this?”
Tonight, tomorrow, a month or a year down the road? A lifetime later? Defnitely. Perhaps. This wasn't supposed to happen, after all.
(But it was meant to happen, wasn't it? Something that's been building for years and now finally--)
She shakes her head, effectively derailing her train of thought, dismissing his question and allowing it to seem as if she simply lets it roll off her back like it doesn't matter (even though they both know it does). “I don't want to think about it, Damon. Not tonight.”
He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Fine by me.”
They re-enter her bedroom minutes later and Damon moves to pick up his clothing, but she shakes her head, motioning towards the bed. He raises an eyebrow questioningly, but he takes the hint and he moves to lie down, pillowing the back of his head on his hands. “Already wanting to go again?” he asks, winking.
Elena doesn't answer his question. She curls up beside him and rests her head on his chest, and maybe she needs this even more than the sex. She doesn't know. Her jumbled thoughts are taking over again even though she's trying her damndest to push them away and has been trying all night, what with the partying and the music and the perpetual motion, the refusal to slow down.
His fingers gently comb through her hair and she thinks that he might be waiting.
Maybe she is, too.
“You're fine with me like this,” she eventually says, after warring with herself over the idea of even bringing it up. “You don't care if I'm a human or a vampire. It doesn't matter to you.”
“Never has,” he answers. “Never will. You should know, Elena, that I'm always going to love you, no matter what you are, or what you aren't.”
(And it wasn't supposed to be like this; it wasn't supposed to get serious like this, not now. Tonight was supposed to be all about having a good time and letting herself be distracted but they've danced around this long enough, she guesses.)
She feels tears sting at the corners of her eyes and she blinks them back as best she can, vision blurry as she tells him, “Ask me again.”
She can tell that he doesn't get it, so she repeats herself, and she sees as realization dawns. His eyes narrow just slightly, and he asks the same question he'd asked in the bathroom: “Are you gonna wind up regretting this?”
Throwing caution to the wind (it's not like she hasn't already done that tonight anyway), she leans down and kisses him, slow and sweet and tender. “I won't. Not ever.”
And she's never meant anything more in her life.
I so miss writing these two but I feel quite incompetent at it now. ;_; Meh. I hope someone enjoyed, at least!