Series: The Vampire Diaries (television series verse)
Word Count: 5,014
Characters, Pairings: Damon/Elena, past Stefan/Elena
Summary: Even though it feels like a betrayal (and it is, he supposes), he can't shake the fact that it feels so very right—just like it always has, when it comes to her.
Warnings: sexual content, language, Damon's somewhat-guilty conscience.
Notes: Takes place after season four, episodes six and seven (and yes, I'm just kinda letting it flow as it will seeing as 4x07 hasn't aired yet). I was inspired by episode six. ^_______^ Enjoy, guys, and if you like, feel free to comment (reviews mean quite a lot to me).
There has been a palpable tension between them ever since Stefan's departure—they've been tiptoeing around truly discussing it, or discussing what may or may not happen next, and they've been skirting around the edges of something... whatever it was that they briefly grasped the night she turned around and kissed him at the hotel.
That seems so long ago now (even though he knows it hasn't been long at all), but he's been feeling more and more of that lately, and he knows that she has too, especially earlier when he asked her to dance with him, citing tradition as an excuse just to get close to her.
(Not that he feels like he needs one, really, in spite of the emotion-that-tries-so-hard-to-be-guilt that sometimes follows.)
They'd almost touched something more when she'd been in his arms and they'd danced in front of the fireplace, but as usual, one of them backed down. This time, it was him. Mostly because, in a way, he'd realized that his brother's words were true to some degree (“let's not pretend this isn't the best day of your life”). On the other hand, though, he can't help but feel more than a little conflicted because of his brother—or, more specifically, his brother's pain.
Nevermind that Stefan never had any reservations about showing Elena affection while in his presence. Nevermind that he would sometimes seem to practically rub their relationship status in his face--
From guilt to jealousy to something akin to elation (because he has a chance of some sort now; she's admitted that she can't ignore her feelings for him as she's done in the past) and back again. He takes another shot of bourbon and briefly considers switching all of these pesky emotions of his off, but he decides against it and pours himself another glass instead. He thinks the better idea is to drink until his head becomes either clear or cloudy, whichever comes first.
“Why aren't you sleeping?” she asks from the doorway and he glances up at her, raising an eyebrow. It's not like he didn't know she was approaching—he heard her quiet footfalls and the slight creaking of the floorboards, both of which heralded her approach. They are alone in the Boarding House, and she had chosen to spend the night in one of the guest bedrooms, staying well away from Stefan's room (and Damon's as well). She had told him that she was going to try to get some rest, but she's clearly as incapable of that at the moment as Damon himself.
“Why aren't you?” he counters as he sets his glass on the coffee table and watches her; he watches as she shrugs, a pretty little frown tugging at the corners of her lips. He watches as she crosses the room, looking determined. He watches as she sinks down onto the couch beside him, now looking slightly less determined and a little more uncertain. Ah, the myriad of emotions that a young vampire has to deal with.
He can relate, though he's nearly two centuries older than her.
(He guesses that it never really changes—not really.)
She reaches for the glass that he set on the table and she downs the rest of his alcohol in one gulp. Apparently, she wants to clear or cloud her mind as well.
“You're not attempting to apply for a position as my new drinking buddy, are you?” he queries. “Because unless your beverage of choice is blood, I hate to tell you that you're not going to have much luck. The alcohol-drinking-buddy position isn't open and will always be filled.” Even though Ric isn't here anymore, goes unsaid. Just another reminder that neither of them truly need.
She half-smiles and he returns it, but it is melancholy, not-quite-him. Not quite her, either.
“We'll see,” she says, “about the blood-drinking... because you get me, when it comes to that.” There is a brief pause, and she looks away. “When it comes to a lot of things. I'm sure you know why I'm sitting here with you right now.”
“Because you couldn't resist my company?” he suggests, and it's a light, playful tease. Not burdened with expectations or what-could-be's.
Her soft laugh does something to him that the alcohol can't—it warms him and it makes him remember all the reasons why he loves her, somehow. Loves her as she was, and loves her as she is. To him, she is still Elena. Elena the vampire, yes, but still essentially the same individual that he fell in love with.
But there are some differences; for instance, she's more headstrong than she was. She's more prone to state how she truly feels. She's no longer denying that there's something between them, and he knows that that is why they are here now (and it's also why his brother is not).
“...I think you know why I'm here,” she eventually says, all seriousness now. “To be honest, the whole inability to resist your company, as you so eloquently put it, kind of factors into it. Something's changed between us since I turned, and I think we--”
“Need to talk about it,” he finishes for her. “Yeah, I know. You said we needed to talk earlier, but we didn't really get around to it.” Granted, he hadn't exactly been up for talking immediately following his brother's departure.
“No we didn't,” she agrees. “And yes, we do. The thing is, Damon, I don't know where to go from here and I don't know how things are going to be for us in the future. Not for you and me, or me and Stefan, or for each of us separately.”
“Pity that vampires aren't given the ability to see the future,” he quips. “The books make it so easy.”
“Damon,” she scolds, “stay with me here. I need you to take this seriously and to be on the same page as me.”
He sighs and runs his fingers through his already-disheveled hair. “I know, Elena. I know that there's no telling what's going to happen with us. I know that the future holds no guarantees. After all, I'm pretty sure my brother counted on forever with you, after you turned.”
She flinches and he realizes that he struck a chord within her even though that hadn't really been his intention. He's about to backpedal when she says, “Actually, he counted on changing me back, remember? I think... I think he loved me more as a human. Because then, I could deny my feelings for you all I wanted. Now? Not so much, and that's something he can't deal with and I don't really blame him for it at all. It wasn't fair to him that when I was with him, I thought about you. I couldn't get you out of my head, and I still can't. I could never really ignore you, Damon, but I could try. And now I can't even do that much.”
Part of him believes that this is all pretty bad timing, but the majority of him doesn't care, where timing is concerned. She's a vampire now; she won't turn old and grey and fragile (and he knows without thinking that he'd love her still, even if she did), and even though they have all the time in the world, it feels as if he's waited a long while for this confession. He thinks (knows) that he would have had to wait even longer if she'd remained human. Hell, he hadn't expected this either, though.
She's just a whirlwind that he's gotten caught up in, and he never wants to get out. He doesn't think he can, even if she winds up causing him a shit-ton more pain than she has (unintentionally) in the past.
That's what love is, though. It's a gamble. Sometimes you get hurt, and sometimes you do the hurting. Sometimes, it's a weird little unpleasant mix of both.
He's always known that it was never going to always be easy for all three of them, though. Someone was always destined to get hurt, regardless of her choice. He's certainly had his fair share (“it's always gonna be Stefan”, “if only I'd met you first”), and now Stefan's feeling that same kind of pain... although maybe not, because it's not like Elena's actually chosen him.
And as for Elena, well, she has hurt also. For both of them. For herself. Damon's not going to pretend like he didn't see the tears in her eyes when she and Stefan called it quits.
He's not gonna pretend that he didn't see the tears in Stefan's eyes, either.
“Listen, Elena,” he starts, feeling slightly uneasy and like he's on ground that isn't as solid as he would like for it to be (castles made of sand always crumble—it's why stone is preferred), “I didn't want to have some hope of a chance with you only to crush Stefan. Believe it or not, but I didn't want my happiness to come at the expense of his.”
(It's as close as he'll come tonight to saying, “I actually love my brother.”)
She reaches over and touches his face. He leans into it. “Believe it or not, but I didn't want that, either.”
It's the white elephant in the room—the big issue that they've avoided truly talking about.
He believes her.
“But the thing is, Damon,” she continues, “I don't want to just leave this as it is. I don't think I can, anymore. And I don't want to think about what was or what might be. I want to focus on the present. I need to, and it's glaringly obvious that I need to come to terms with something I've been denying for a... long time, I think.”
(It's funny how everything's magnified when you become a vampire, but her ability to deny, deny, deny has seemed to dissipate.)
“But you're mentioning the past, aren't you?” he asks, half-joking. “Bringing up what you felt for me.”
“What I feel,” she corrects, lightly nudging him.
“And what do you feel.” He dares to throw caution to the wind and demand it of her. It isn't a question, and he knows that there really is no looking back after this.
(“If I'm going to feel guilty for something....” Yeah, this is a familiar tune, but maybe if he's lucky, the song will go a little differently this time.)
She takes a deep breath and slowly releases it—an action that is no longer necessary for her, but old habits die hard (the drawing of a breath, the act of falling in love with a woman who's already taken, a face that's already been seen, but maybe he'll get it right for once). “I told you before I died that I couldn't unfeel what I felt for Stefan. I've come to realize that that also applies to you. I can't not love you, Damon. I can't not feel attracted to you. And believe me, I've tried.”
There's a definite sense of near-giddiness that comes when she admits that she loves him, but he's afraid of letting his hopes soar too high. No guarantees, and all that. Both of them know this. Maybe the only one who didn't really know it was Stefan.
But now he knows, too.
“Believe me when I say that your efforts have never gone unnoticed,” he replies. “But since you're so intent on focusing on the present, I'm gonna ask you: now what?”
It's a loaded question—he's well aware of this. She could shoot him down in an instant, or she could dance around what she wants some more, or whatever they are or will be could go up in flames one day (he thinks of a church burning to ashes). Either way, he thinks it's worth the risk. She always has been and always will be.
Her response is not a verbal one. Instead, she slowly leans in and presses her lips to his, and it is so like and so very unalike that night they spent at the hotel, back when she was human and more confused about her desires than certain of them. That was a raging, uncontrollable inferno. This is a sweet, slow burn that he knows will consume him in ways quick, short-lived passion cannot. Now, she is open and honest and raw and immeasurably beautiful—not that she wasn't before. Different situations, but two sides of the same coin.
He thinks that tonight, there will be no interruptions. Not from Jeremy or Bonnie or Caroline or Stefan. Tonight, he will let her lead him were she wants to go, and he will follow. Tonight, reservations will be set aside and further guilt will not be thought of.
He feels the tip of her tongue (warm and wet; he wonders if she's fed recently) tease at the seam of his lips and he parts them for her without hesitation, granting her the access that she seeks. She runs her tongue along blunt teeth and then brushes it against his own, making him shiver involuntarily. She makes what sounds like a noise of approval against his lips and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her closer to himself (a completely voluntary action).
She is the one who breaks away, only to pepper kisses and soft bites along his jaw and neck. He half-expects her to sink her fangs into him, and perhaps is a little disappointed when she actually doesn't (at least, not yet).
“Should we go somewhere e--”
“Nope,” she interrupts. “There's no-one here, and this couch is plenty big enough for both of us.” Dift fingers slip under his shirt and tease along bare skin and he smiles.
“Very practical, you are,” he compliments, and she returns his smile. It's all genuine this time—no hint of sorrow or other negative emotions.
“I try.” She's tugging at his shirt in the next moment and he's lifting his arms, helping her remove it. He reaches for her sweater but she shies away, shaking her head. “Not yet. Let me focus on you first, okay?”
It's not like he can exactly refuse her (well, he can, but he has no desire to), and so he lifts an eyebrow, tilts his head, and gives her an almost-smirk. “All right, then. Have your way with me.”
Her laughter bubbles forth in a quick, quiet little burst and then subsides as she straddles him (oh, she's quite good at doing this and he's never minded being under her, in his fantasies or otherwise), swivels her hips just so and both of them gasp none-too-softly.
“That's kind of the loosely-formed plan,” she informs, and her hips grind against his once more—a deliciously and frustratingly slow movement that's nowhere near enough but they're very early in the game and they have plenty of time. Damon's waited this long, and perhaps she's earned the right to tease just a little.
“I was unaware that there was a plan,” he says, and just because he feels like giving her a taste of her own medicine and teasing back for a bit (he'll do plenty more in a bit, he promises himself and silently promises her), he grabs her hips and shoves his own upwards, making sure that his hardness brushes against her in just the right way. He knows he's accomplished his goal when her breath hitches and her eyes go a little glossy, lashes at half-mast.
And all he can think is that she's achingly beautiful and maybe not his (but maybe she is, just maybe, in her own way, in their way), but they'll find some way to make this work. They will.
(There he goes, breaking the rules and thinking about the possibilities of a future beyond the next few minutes, hours, whatever... Beyond her being on top of him or underneath him and maybe just being beside him and holding onto his hand with all she's got. No, he's not supposed to be doing this, thinking about this, because somethingsomeone could snatch it away just like he's snatching it away from Stefan and--
He's never been one for following the rules. Not really. Not ever.)
“The plan I loosely formed a couple of minutes ago,” she tells him, thankfully derailing his destructive train of thought. “You know, when I was kissing your neck.”
“Oh,” he replies, nodding in understanding. “I suppose I should have used my powers of telepathy to learn of your plan so I wouldn't have had to ask.”
And there's her laugh again, bright and warm with just a hint of seduction thrown in (oh, she's never laughed quite like that for him, aside from in his mind when he's jacked off thinking about her). She thumbs the button on his jeans and makes quick work of the zipper, all sense of indecisiveness seemingly gone for the time being. “I don't think you need telepathy to figure out where this is going.”
Her fingers circle his erection once she frees it from the confines of his boxers and jeans, and he moans, bucking his hips upwards into her touch. She's bolder now, definitely. More willing to explore.
(Or maybe she's always been this way, and it's just a part of her that he hasn't seen until now.)
“... Oh,” is all he can manage to say to that—brilliant retaliation, he thinks. Or maybe just an agreement of sorts. The pitiful whimper that he makes shortly thereafter (when her thumb brushes along the underside of his cock and then presses in such a way that it makes him a little dizzy in an amazing kind of way) makes her grin, though he refuses to accept the fact that such a sound came from him.
(In all of the years that he's spent wandering, looking for something just like this, he's never found it with any other woman. Not even with Katherine. Only with the woman who's on his lap right now, carefully studying his face, watching his every reaction to each of her touches.)
She's slipping to the floor and sliding between his knees before his mind can process what she's about to do, but then all thoughts (and even thoughts of thoughts) fly out the window when her mouth closes around his length and she sucks softly, tongue swirling around his head in an utterly mind-blowing way.
She begins this steady up-and-down motion, alternating between sucking and stroking, and no, she doesn't remind him of some porn star when she does it or some pretty thing with years of experience in this department; what she's doing to him is sloppy and not exactly practiced, but it's good. It's great, really, and he'd take this any day with her over a lifetime of something similar (something that could never compare, never be 'better') with someone else.
He feels her teeth dragging slowly along his skin and it's some strange mix of pleasure and not-quite pain. It makes him release something akin to a growl and she hums in response, gazing up at him through her lashes. For a moment, he thinks that he'd like to kiss whoever taught her to do this, and then he thinks that no, no, he wouldn't.
Unless, of course, this is something that she's come up with all on her own.
Oh, hell, he'll kiss her anyway, just because he can.
He tangles his fingers in her long locks and he tugs, though gently. She pulls away with obvious reluctance, looking up at him concernedly and confusedly. “Was I... uhm. Not doing it right for you? You didn't like it?” she asks, and his heart melts and breaks a little, because she should never ever think that she's anything in his mind but the best (the only, really. Yeah, the only, and maybe that's sad and pathetic to say but it holds true).
“On the contrary, you're doing exactly right, and I am thoroughly enjoying myself,” he corrects her, disentangling his fingers from his hair so he can touch her cheek, her lips, her chin. “I just wanted to do this.”
He kisses her then, fiercely and passionately, swallowing the moan that she makes when he pulls her back onto the couch with him. It's his turn now, he decides, and maybe he didn't let her explore as much as she would have liked, but he thinks he's entitled to a little impatience now anyway (after he's waited with a glacier's patience).
“Damon,” she begins when he breaks away from her lips, but he shakes his head, attempting to silence her by slipping his hands under her shirt, letting his fingers play along the small of her back. It works, for she leans into his touches with a quiet, happy-sounding sigh and nestles her head against his shoulder.
His hands don't stay there for long. He moves them back to the front of her body, smiles when he apparently finds a ticklish spot on her abdomen and she laughs. He is delighted to find that she isn't wearing a bra as his hands work their way further upwards; he circles her nipples with his index fingers, hears her sharp intake of breath, and his cock throbs in response.
He wants to practically tear her clothing off; he wants to be inside of her now, but because he doesn't want this to be over before it should be, he settles for simply removing her sweater and leaning in, sucking lightly on one of her hardened nipples.
He feels her fingers thread through his hair, feels them tighten and pull when he lavishes attention upon her other nipple. The little noises that she's making in the back of her throat are unimaginably erotic, and the way she pulls him closer? The way she holds onto him and subconsciously (or perhaps consciously) spreads her thighs? Yeah, all of that falls into the 'unimaginably erotic' category as well. She's making it blatantly obvious that she's hungry, and hungry for him. Hungry for what he can give her, eager to take it.
Well, he supposes, this has been a long time coming. Too long.
(Oops, not supposed to be thinking about the past. Just the now.)
He abruptly pulls away from her and stands, smiling reassuringly when she gives him a puzzled look. He shimmies quickly out of his jeans and boxers, and then he eyes her grey pajama bottoms. “Pajama bottoms and a sweater? Really, Elena?”
She scowls at him. “I just threw whatever on, Damon. I didn't exactly care enough to dig through my suitcase for something that matches perfectly. The plan was for me to just lay down and try to get some rest, remember? Besides, you shouldn't be complaining too much. Easy access, and all.”
She tugs at her drawstring and pulls the pajama bottoms down a little so that he can see a flash of lacy blue, and Damon has to admit that he sees the advantage, there.
“I'll give you that,” he says before lightly swatting her hands away. “Here, let me finish that.” It's kind of like unwrapping a present that he's been waiting for and that he's really wanted for longer than he cares to admit (four years, forever, it's all relative)--yeah, it's like that when he has her lift her hips so that he can pull her pajama bottoms all the way off.
The scent of her arousal hits him with all the force of a speeding wooden bullet, only without the unpleasant aftereffects. She smells wonderful, and he can tell how wet she is simply by glancing at the dampened patch of cloth between her thighs. He thinks his grin might be more than a little feral, because he's thinking ahead. The plan here is to make her a whole lot wetter.
He touches her through her panties—finds her clit and lightly rubs. She groans, her head falling back and eyes closing, hips lifting towards his touch. It gives him ample opportunity to remove her pretty lacy panties (and he comments on how much he likes them; thinks he's seen them before tucked away in one of her drawers) and he takes full advantage of said opportunity, tugging them down her hips and her slender legs. She doesn't protest.
When she's naked before him, he takes a moment to simply look at her, and he can tell that it makes her a little uncomfortable, because she shifts and looks away from his scrutiny. “You're not... comparing, are you? Finding all the similarities?”
He knows what and who she's talking about, and he shakes his head, makes her look at him. “No, Elena. I'm just looking at you, admiring your beauty. It's yours alone and no-one else's.”
She smiles then and relaxes. “Okay.”
He takes that as an unofficial 'go-ahead', and when he slides his palms along her thighs, they seem to part almost of their own accord. Her breathing is staccato and she's biting her lip, waiting, perhaps. Well, he'd be more than stupid to ignore the invitation, wouldn't he?
She gasps at the first touch of his tongue, and he hears her nails scrape along the couch, idly wishing that they were running down his back instead. She can't leave scars on him, but if she could, they'd be scars that he would proudly display.
He dips his tongue just inside her opening, tasting her (and it's gotta be something like ambrosia—to him, at least) before moving back to where she really wants him. He sucks on her clit (gently, softly, a slow build) and then begins flicking his tongue back and forth, back and forth, until she's rocking her hips up and holding his head in place, begging for more.
So he gives her what she asks for. He slips two fingers insider of her and works them in time to the movements of his tongue—faster, faster, more pressure there, and then she's shuddering and crying out and clenching his fingers over and over again before she's relaxing and falling back against the couch, looking at him dazedly.
He smiles, licking at his lips and nipping at her inner thigh before urging her to lie down so that he can fit himself between her thighs.
This couch isn't the most comfortable or convenient place for sex, he realizes, but now even he is unwilling to go elsewhere; she's beneath him, open and willing, legs wrapped around his waist—why the hell would he want to bother with trying to suggest yet again that they go somewhere else, only to have her tell him for a second time that this is fine?
Her orgasm has made her even wetter, and because of this, he is able to enter her in one smooth motion. She doesn't flinch; she only digs her heels into his back and draws him closer, forcing him even deeper inside of her.
“More,” she says (pleads, demands) as she looks directly into his eyes, and he isn't about to deny her. He gives her exactly what she asks for, grasping at her hips and drawing back, only to shove in again just as deep as before. He gives himself credit for starting off slow, but she doesn't let him keep that rhythm up for long.
She thrusts upwards to meet him, forces him to quicken the pace. He's digging his fingers into her hips so hard that he fears he might be hurting her, but she doesn't complain; she only moans his name and drags her nails down his back—he feels the scratches that she leaves behind (oh-so-briefly), but he doesn't complain either.
He's got his face buried in her neck and he's pounding into her (fast and unrelenting, but judging from the way she's moaning and whimpering, she wants it like this) when his fangs decide to make their appearance. He knows that she feels them when she tenses, but only for half a second.
“Do it,” she tells him, and he does. The moment he gives in and bites her, he feels her fangs—feels them sink deep into his shoulder, feels her drink from him as he drinks from her. And that proves to be their undoing.
She comes first, all but sobbing against his shoulder as she clenches again and again around his cock. She's almost like a fucking vice grip, and perhaps it should hurt, but it doesn't. It makes him all shuddery and weak-kneed, and it makes him come harder than he'd ever imagined.
Logically, he knows they can't stay like this forever (and perhaps there's more meaning to that than he's willing to look into), but he doesn't want to pull away from or out of her just yet, and so he props himself up using his elbows and looks down at her. His blood is glistening on her lips, and he swears that if he hadn't already had an orgasm, seeing her like that would certainly do the trick.
“I think you were wrong,” she says.
“About what?” he asks.
“This.” She makes a little gesture of sorts, and then runs her fingers through his hair. “Us. About 'us' being right, but not at that time. I think you were wrong.”
He tenses, readying himself for something that he might not want to hear (because history has proven to repeat itself).
“I think... maybe this has always been right, in its own way.”
He releases a breath that he hadn't known he was holding, and he leans down to kiss her, licking the blood from her lips as he feels her do the same.
He doesn't claim to know what the future holds. He doesn't claim to know what choices Elena will make a day from now, a week from now, a month from now, a year or a decade from now.
All he knows is this: This feels right.
Right now, it's right.
And he's content just knowing that.
So, at first this was going to just be smut. Then it wanted to be a bit of an angsty sap-fest without smut. It wound up being some strange mix of both. And it got out of hand rather rapidly. But hey, at least it's done!
I hope you all enjoyed! ^_^