A/N: Recently, Ark (on AO3) wrote a fic where she secretly planted an easter egg implying that Damon and Alaric had once shared a memorable night with Elijah. I am the dumbass who noticed and asked and she promptly squeed a lot, and dared me to write it.

So here it is.

A million CAPSQUEES to Saltzatore for betaing yet again.

…..

It was late, in Alaric's loft, and he and Damon were sticky with each other's come and the familiar, heady scent of sweat and saliva blending to a pleasant slick on the joined planes of their skin. Pleased with themselves, pleased with each other. Pleased.

Alaric let out a long, sweet breath. Damon rolled over and pinned Alaric's chest, and Alaric gripped his arms. "I'm giving you twenty minutes to recover," Damon growled low in his throat.

Alaric raised his eyebrows and pulled Damon down for a kiss. "Better make it forty," he answered, grinning, and Damon gave an irritated grumble.

"Time you became a vampire, Ric," he muttered, dropping a line of kisses across Alaric's jaw, down his neck, swiping at beads of sweat and other salty treats until pausing at Alaric's ridiculously sensitive nipples for a gentle nip. "You want to hear about the funny, funny prank I pulled on Klaus today?"

"I know you didn't send a pizza to his house," Alaric said, "because he'd eat the delivery guy, and then I'd be pissed at you. Horse's head in his bed?"

"Nope. Much funnier." Damon tugged gently on Alaric's spent cock, and Alaric batted the hand away.

"Thirty minutes minimum. Tell me about your prank."

"I undaggered Elijah."

Alaric pulled himself up onto his elbows. Incredulous grin stretched across his face. "You did?"

"Surprise for Klaus when he opens the coffin." Damon never stopped moving, kissed and licked and sucked every exposed inch of Alaric's flesh. Alaric lay back again, shivered deliciously, tangling a hand in Damon's hair.

"I hope you've got a plan to preserve my virtue."

Damon nestled his face into Alaric's pubic hair, breathing in the thickly human scent of sex, and grinned. "I'm gonna let your virtue fend for itself."

"He's probably forgotten about it, anyway," Alaric said, tracing the shell of Damon's ear with the tip of his finger. "What sort of attention span can a thousand year old vampire really have?"

Alaric groaned as not more than five minutes had ticked by and Damon already had his mouth full of dick. No point in arguing.

….

Then

Technically, Alaric met Elijah first. Standing out in the field near one of the old homesteads, Alaric schooled himself to hold his ground, reminded himself what counted was Elena's safety and (because really, Elijah had gone to some lengths to ensure he was alone with her) Jenna's, too. Damon may not have been in same league as Elijah in terms of strength, power, knowledge, but both were predators and the same rules applied. Alaric knew what to do.

When Jenna stepped away to get something from the car, Alaric took two measured, controlled steps towards Elijah, eyes front and cold and direct. Elijah looked him up and down, looked through his clothes and his skin, catalogued his blood. Stripped away the muscle and drank Alaric's marrow with his thousand year old eyes, and Alaric didn't flinch.

"Alaric Saltzman. So you're one of those people on Elena's list of loved ones to protect."

Elijah was smiling. Or was it a smile? It was so measured. Elijah's head was cocked just slightly to the side, making him look almost human, and his eyes held a warmth for a moment. A warmth, or perhaps just a small degree of amusement.

Alaric remained still. Tense, but trying hard not to betray it. Hands slung lazily in the pockets of his jeans, vaguely aware of the heat radiating from a shallow bite on his hip, not yet twelve hours old. He nodded, at last.

"So is Jenna."

Elijah took one step closer. A close talker, then. A conversation between Damon and Elijah would be an interesting thing to see. Elijah inhabited his body utterly, a side effect, Alaric supposed, of wearing it so unchanged for a thousand years.

Elijah spoke in a lower tone. "You don't have to be jealous. I don't really pursue younger… women."

On this last word Elijah placed his index finger on Alaric's forehead, traced slowly down the bridge of his nose. Alaric felt something quicken in his veins but didn't drop Elijah's gaze and didn't take a step back.

You never let a predator know you're afraid.

Elijah's finger kept on its path, traversing Alaric's face in a perfect vertical line, until he reached Alaric's lips, rubbed between them until Alaric found himself letting his mouth drop open a crack. Elijah rubbed the inside of Alaric's bottom lip until Alaric was riding the very edge of a whimper.

Satisfied, Elijah stepped back, a notch. "It's a joke, Ric. Lighten up." He'd started to walk away, but not before gently trailing fingers briefly over the barely-closed bite on Alaric's hip.

It hadn't felt like a joke.

….

Now

What Damon wanted, Damon generally got, so Damon was on his hands and knees on the bed, Alaric buried in him to the hilt, Damon's arms and legs losing integrity on every thrust. Alaric loved Damon like this; lost in hedonism, lost in Alaric. He held Damon's hips hard, leaving bruises that quickly faded to green, to nothing at all, and he shouted as he came.

Damon slumped bonelessly onto the duvet, wincing as the swollen head of Alaric's cock passed his tender rim. "This time, I'm the one who's gonna need forty minutes," he complained, and Alaric laughed.

They lay separately for long moments, and then Damon crawled to where Alaric lay, insinuating himself between strong arms. It had been a surprise, early on, just how fucking cuddly Damon was, but Alaric was past surprise now, rubbed a kiss into soft, coal black hair.

"It's not like you haven't done it before," Damon said, and for a moment Alaric was confused. "You went to UNC," Damon went on. "I know that campus. Bet you got passed around like a party favour more than once."

Alaric chuckled. "Not by guys who could drain me of my lifeblood faster than I could say 'I can feel teeth'."

Damon reached for the scar on Alaric's hip, perfect replica of his own fangs. Damon's claim. "Elijah's a gentleman," he said airily.

"That might be so. But Damon?"

"Yes?"

"Ever occur to you, that sharing a bed with me and Elijah, you might be the one that gets passed around like a party favour?"

Damon stilled in Alaric's arms. "You may have a point," he mused. "You may have a point, there."

….

Then

Damon and Elijah were introduced at Carol Lockwood's historical society event. Damon held Elijah's eyes with a steel he wasn't sure he could actually profess. Had left Elijah pinned to a wall by the wooden shaft of a coat rack weeks before, discourteously, assuming Elijah would stay dead, as most things did.

Like any creature on Earth that knows it has the absolute upper hand, Elijah accommodated those around him no more than he absolutely had to. Arm held low and close to his side so that Damon had to reach halfway across the galaxy to shake it. His hand was cooler than Damon's and his grip like a vice, and it stirred something in Damon he didn't want to examine too closely.

By silent agreement they stepped into a quiet study as soon as the ignorance of the people around them allowed. The air was electric and Damon knew that within the next few minutes, they'd either be rutting against a wall or one would commit an act of violence against the other. Damon didn't like his chances either way. Just hoped that if it was option A, Alaric would understand (Alaric, who had watched him step through these doors), and if it was option B, Elijah would at least leave him alive.

After a brief and remarkably polite exchange which went very suddenly south Damon found himself against the wall with one of Elijah's hands against his throat. The other held Damon's hand almost delicately a moment before Damon felt the sickening pain of a broken wrist – Damon knew it would heal quickly, but ache for hours.

Option B, then.

"You young vampires, so arrogant. How dare you come in here and challenge me?"

Struggling to find enough breath to speak with, Damon half slumped. "You can't kill me, man. It's not part of the deal…"

"Silence," Elijah answered, and the weight of those syllables roused Damon to half-hard, even as Elijah stuck a number two pencil into Damon's carotid artery, let him slump against the desk.

When Elijah handed over a clean white handkerchief with which to stanch the blood, Damon found the gesture far more erotic than he should have.

Elijah's voice deepened and softened. "I'm an original. Show a little respect. The moment you cease to be of use to me, you're dead, so you should do what I say. Keep Elena safe."

When Elijah left, Damon texted Alaric to meet him at the car. Blood-splattered wasn't a great look for a Lockwood party, no matter how common a motif it was.

Back at the boarding house, Alaric cheered Damon right up with a blow-job on the couch, and plenty of bourbon. "He's one scary dude," Alaric said airily, wiping a drop of come off his lip with his thumb. "But with nice hair."

The next hour was a blur. Damon knew Alaric was dead and that his house was full of werewolves – human looking, right now, but werewolves – and that he was chained to a chair with a collar of stakes around his neck, slowly bleeding out.

And then Elijah was there, ripping out hearts left, right, and centre, and damned if that wasn't the hottest thing Damon had ever seen. He vowed to practise the technique himself.

Elijah looked around the room, face betraying nothing but a lazy sort of half-interest. Noted the lifeless body of Alaric Saltzman and frowned slightly.

"A waste," he said. "They never last long."

"He'll be fine," Damon answered, trying to keep still. The stakes in his neck hurt so badly he wondered if they had been soaked in vervain. "You can't keep him down. Killed him myself, once."

Elijah seemed to drink in Alaric's still form with his eyes. "Indeed," he said, eyebrows inching north. "Very interesting. He smells human."

Damon said nothing. Elijah tore his eyes almost reluctantly from the dead heap on the floor and stood before Damon, something approaching satisfaction on his face. Reached deliberately, slowly, to tear the chains from Damon's arms.

"You realise this is the third time I've saved your life now?"

Damon raised his eyebrows. "Fifth time, you get a voucher for a cup of coffee and a donut. Are you going to finish what you started here?" False bravado; Damon felt weak from pain and blood loss and the wooden spikes in his neck.

Elijah stepped closer, put his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned so his face was inches from Damon's neck. "Yes," he said. Leaned far closer than he needed to and unbuckled the collar from the back. Peeled it back one sharpened spike at a time, his breath cool against Damon's neck.

And then without a word, without a breath of acknowledgment, he began to lick away the trickles of blood that escaped the wounds.

By the time Elijah had reached Damon's Adam's apple, Damon's erection had become physically painful; he wanted to tear out the last few spikes and let Elijah bend him over the couch, fuck him until he bled, lick that away too. By the time all the spikes were out, Damon was whimpering, restraining himself by gripping the arms of the chair. When Elijah stood slowly, examining the collar in his hands, he nodded, as if in approval.

"You don't mind if I keep this?"

Almost incoherent, Damon shrugged. Elijah examined his expression a moment, and then let his eyes drift south, to the erection Damon made no effort to conceal.

After a brief nod, Elijah left.

Alaric was beginning to come around when Elijah disappeared through the library door, caught just a glimpse of the slim, controlled form and beautifully cut suit. Instantly saw Damon's expression. Recognised it as the expression only Alaric himself generally inspired, the tent at Damon's crotch doing nothing to deflect the overall impression. Alaric noted the distinct signs of licked-away blood around his lover's neck.

"Damon," he said, when he could put words to it. "I think Elijah wants to fuck you."

Eyes black with lust, bottom lip swollen obscenely, eyes heavily lidded, Damon tried to muster a smirk and missed by a good thirty yards. "I think he wants to fuck us both," he answered, when he was able to respond at all.

….

Now

Damon and Stefan, Elijah and Klaus shared a terribly, terribly polite – but charged – dinner at Klaus' brand new and hideously decorated family home. Damon cringed, but also felt a little sorry for him. It looked as though Klaus had decided he liked the rich layering of history he had seen at the boarding house and decided to replicate it. With new things. Things that said nothing about him, or his family, and that didn't go together.

Damon kept his mouth shut, and was grateful Stefan didn't have enough good taste to recognise bad taste when he saw it.

The agenda, ostensibly, was to broker peace between Stefan and Klaus, negotiate some degree of safety for Elena, and Mystic Falls in general. It wasn't going well. Damon was tempted to stake Stefan himself and might have, if he had forgotten for a single moment that all he really had to do was drag the night out for as long as it took Sabrina and her mother to get the final coffin open.

Late in the evening, Damon excused himself for some air. Elijah stood gracefully and followed him into the cool night.

"Your brother's a dick," Damon said, eyes cast out into the distance.

"You are not the first to have made that observation." Elijah straightened the sleeves of his shirt, ran his hand through his hair. Damon tried not to react. Elijah knew full well the effect he was having. "How is your… friend? Your Mr Saltzman?"

"Mr Saltzman? Really?" Damon turned to face Elijah, crossed his arms over his chest, made a disgusted face. "Ric dies a little bit more often than I'd like. Otherwise, peachy."

Elijah raised his eyebrows. "Intriguing, that ring."

Damon narrowed his eyes, turned to face Elijah, who was still gazing into the distance. "Am I supposed to take that as some sort of a threat? Be impressed? What, you'll threaten to cut his hand off if I don't make Stefan play nice with your little brother? Want me to pay for their honeymoon?"

Elijah smiled, and this time it reached his eyes, as he turned to face Damon. "Why would I cut off his hand? I imagine he has no small skill with it, to have kept you steady at his side these some months."

You're not wrong, Damon thought, but did not say, ignoring, as he had to, the treacherous twitch of his cock. "So?"

"Merely mentioning that I know about the ring. Not intended as a threat. My God, you Salvatores are defensive. You… intrigue me. Your Mr… Ric intrigues me. Nothing more or less than that. There is so little in this world that still holds interest."

Damon and Elijah stood close enough together so that it would have taken less than nothing for Damon to have pressed his body against Elijah's – and for reasons he wasn't prepared to look too closely at, he wanted to, God, he wanted to. Instead he feigned boredom.

"Colour me flattered." Damon cocked his chin at the house. "They've either kissed and made up, or they're in there killing each other. So how about we pick this up later. 'Kay?" Damon slapped Elijah high on his shoulder, turned on his heel and re-entered the mansion.

"I intend to," Elijah murmured as he followed Damon inside.

Elijah and Damon ended the night by undaggering the rest of the family and sharing a very meaningful look, one which confirmed for Damon that Elijah had not forgotten the very strange flirtation they had all ended months before when Klaus had daggered and boxed him up.

Damon may not have lingered so long if he'd known Alaric was dying in a pool of his own blood at the Gilbert house. Once he knew about it, he promptly installed Alaric in the boarding house and Elena at Caroline's. For their safety. And frankly, for easy access to Alaric's talented lips and tongue.

Alaric was at the house alone, marking papers in the study and enjoying unprecedented access to Damon's excellent selection of bourbons when Elijah arrived unannounced, a couple of days later. Alaric's threat detection was pretty impressive, for a human, but he didn't hear Elijah until Elijah was standing in front of him, facing the fireplace.

Alaric startled, spilling bourbon on both his shirt and the paper he was grading.

"Hello, Ric," Elijah said, back turned, rearranging the burning logs with a poker.

"Jesus. You know, you can be…" adjectives floated through his head. Few of them flattering. Creepy. Disturbing. Scary. Ridiculously erotic. "…unsettling."

"So I hear," Elijah agreed, turning to face Alaric, his expression droll.

"I suppose I should apologise for killing you, that one time. Although, since it didn't take…?"

"No need," Elijah answered, calm. "Perhaps you'd like to offer me a drink."

"Damon's not here."

"I know. Pour me a drink, Ric."

Alaric stood, most definitely unsettled, pausing to check his vervain bracelet was firmly attached to his wrist (it was) and to put the paper back on the pile. "Bourbon?" he asked, arriving at the bar, unsure of why, exactly, he was just doing what he was told, debating texting Damon to get back to the house.

"Cognac."

Elijah turned back to the fire. Distractedly, Alaric thought back over his day. If Elijah had arrived a couple of hours earlier, he would have found him and Damon fucking frantically on the hearth, right where Elijah was currently standing. He wondered whether the smells in the room told the tale.

Assumed they did, when he crossed to hand Elijah the glass and caught Elijah's knowing smirk.

"You died again," Elijah noted.

"Yes." Alaric retreated to the bar to refill his own glass.

"That ring of yours is a risky proposition. Why hasn't Damon turned you? You have an… affection for each other. An attachment of some sort. Surprising, but palpable. Why hasn't he turned you?"

Alaric raised his eyebrows, pouring his own drink, but didn't look up. "It's not for want of trying."

"And you treasure this… temporary, mundane human existence more than you do your lover?"

"Your assessment of my life is both depressing and patronising," Alaric said, raising his glass in a salute. "You really have no idea, do you? Do you even remember what it was like to be human?"

Elijah conceded the point. "No."

"You never had a choice about this life. Neither did Damon, really. I do. I intend to exercise that choice."

"A considered answer. And surprisingly perceptive," Elijah said. Swirled the cognac lazily in his glass and threw it back. Crossed to the bar, to where Alaric stood, and placed the glass down with a soft, precise clunk.

It wasn't a surprise when Elijah stood so their bodies were barely an inch apart. It wasn't a surprise when he placed his hands in his pockets, as if to present as less of a threat. It wasn't even a surprise when he leaned forward and took the right side of Alaric's bottom lip in his mouth, and ran his tongue over it.

It was a surprise when Alaric moaned quietly in his throat, let his eyes flutter to closed, and bit down a little harder than even he had expected to, tasting Elijah's blood, his pulse flickering in his throat like a bird's, his breath growing faster and shallower.

Elijah drew away. "The three of us should have a drink. Have Damon call me."

When Damon returned to the boarding house a couple of hours later, Alaric was still semi-coherent on the couch, having marked only three papers. He was also a little drunk. He could tell from the weight of his eyelids, the swell of his lips, the electricity running across his skin, that he looked no less turned on than he had when Elijah had left.

Damon stopped dead in his tracks halfway into the library, and Alaric looked at him over the back of the couch.

"We need to talk about Elijah," he said, "right after you fuck some sense back into me."

And Damon threw his head back and laughed.

Hours later, sprawled on Damon's enormous bed, Alaric finally broached the subject. "It's not just me, right? There's something about him. Please tell me it's some ridiculous Original magic. I don't think of myself as being especially prone to fits of almost coming in my pants every time some dude with nice hair looks at me sideways."

"I have nice hair. I make you come in your pants," Damon argued, and then he chuckled, drew himself up so he could nuzzle at Alaric's neck. "How long has it been?"

"Dude, like… senior year of college. It was a lot simpler then."

"How so?" Damon was almost ready to go again, running his hands over Alaric's body, writing letters to Alaric with his fingers, on Alaric's thighs, on the firm musculature of Alaric's stomach. His fingers flickered over the scar on Alaric's hip, until he replaced them with his mouth, biting down gently, lapping at the blood which softly welled from the wound. Alaric moaned, tangled his fingers in Damon's hair.

"How so?" Damon repeated, sucking lazily at the wound.

"The last time I can remember… a bunch of us were sitting around, drunk… not too drunk, if you catch my drift, but… can't remember his name… he leaned over and said… oh, fuck Damon, that's good…"

"He said that?" Damon chuckled. "Go on," he said, licking tenderly at the skin on the inside of Alaric's thighs.

"He leaned over and kissed me, and then he said 'how about you, and me, and him, go back to my place and fuck?'"

Damon snorted, amused. "No flowers? No candy?"

"No phone numbers or repeat business, either, if I recall." Alaric gently drew Damon towards him, nudged his mouth open. "Damon, there's…" he started, and paused.

"What?" Damon said, propping himself up on Alaric's chest.

"There's nothing missing here, right?"

Damon looked confused for a moment, and then surprised. "No. Nothing."

Alaric had trouble believing it, sometimes, knew Damon had to hold back a little to avoid hurting him. At last he gave a smile. "Are we really talking about doing this?"

"Actually," Damon admitted, "I think at this point, we're planning it."

They did nothing about it – Alaric was staying at the boarding house for the foreseeable future and he and Damon were well-enough occupied with each other's whims to half-forget the overall plot. Stefan and Klaus were well-enough occupied with each other, snarling and posturing, that the boarding house was empty most of the time, and Damon delighted in an exploration of the boarding house's more obscure corners. He'd even managed to convince Alaric to give him a blow job in Stefan's room. Claimed it was far less than Stefan deserved.

There was also, however, a weird domesticity to the situation. One night, in the library, Alaric was sitting at one end of the couch reading "The Day Lincoln was Shot", with Damon's feet in his lap; his fingers were curled over Damon's ankles, positively possessive. Damon was reading "The Call of the Wild" for what was probably the one-hundredth time. Damon had long ago admitted he had read his favourite book almost once a year since it was published in 1903.

Both were bordering on intoxication, but it was always a careful dance. Properly drunk, the night's activities might be curtailed, so they were rigorous about maintaining functional sobriety.

Damon suddenly tensed. Just a bare flicker of tension, but enough to alert Alaric.

"What?" Alaric barely breathed, but knew, from the narrowing of Damon's eyes, the change in the slant of his jaw, who had just entered the boarding house. Damon swung his legs down, and got to his feet, indicating that Alaric should do the same.

By the time Elijah entered the library, both were standing. Damon was hovering by the bar, pouring Elijah's cognac, and Alaric was leaning against the wall by the edge of the fireplace.

"Oh, good," Elijah said. "You were expecting me."

"Well…" Damon said, quibbling. "'Anticipating' might be the better word."

Elijah shrugged. "I've been alive a thousand years," he said. "Semantics hold little interest for me."

Alaric quirked his eyebrows. "You play the 'really old dude' card a lot, Elijah. Educate us. Share the wisdom." Alaric's voice dripped sarcasm, but Elijah only smiled, accepting the proffered drink.

"I have a lot to teach," he admitted. "But I'll admit it gets… dull, at times. Everything is commonplace eventually. The most extraordinary intoxicants, the… most exotic pastimes. I once believed that revenge was the only thing that made it worth continuing to exist."

Damon narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest. "You've changed your mind about the revenge part of our scheme, then?"

Elijah slowly swirled the cognac in his glass. "Not at all. I still view revenge as a high pursuit. And undervalued in general. I suppose," he mused, "that for a human, the old expression holds true; life is too short. For me, however… and of course, for you, Damon…" Elijah held Damon's eyes a long moment, and then turned his gaze on Alaric. "Life is long. I apologise, Ric, if that is… insensitive."

Alaric nodded slowly, moving toward the bar. "So, Elijah, do tell. What else makes it worth staying so long?"

Elijah cocked his head to the side, holding Alaric's gaze like a predator might hypnotise its prey. "I have tasted every imaginable drug, eaten every kind of food. I have committed every crime, save those against children. I have seen almost every country, including many that have not existed for decades or centuries."

"And?" Alaric didn't drop Elijah's gaze.

"What makes it worth living, this life, is physical pleasure. Nothing else."

In preparation for his wedding to Isobel, Alaric had learned to dance; the intricate steps of the Foxtrot, the Waltz, others he could no longer name. They didn't come naturally to him. The cadence of this conversation, no less a dance, he rode like a leaf in the wind.

The three men were standing quite close together; further than leaning distance, but within arm's reach. The outcome of this particular meeting of the minds was inevitable. All that remained was to decide who would make the first move. A dance of three with no clear leader.

Trading looks, trading challenges. Damon was probably the most vulnerable of the three; Elijah was old, old as the stars. Alaric was human, a novelty. Damon was in the middle, the epicentre of all sexual tensions and desires, the smallest of the three, fantastically addicted to Alaric, and with no real idea of how fantastically addicted Alaric was to him. He'd need a fuckload of reassurance from Alaric when tonight was done, but Alaric was prepared to provide it.

Five, four, three, two, Alaric rolled his eyes. Grabbed Damon's wrist in his right hand and threw his left arm around Elijah's neck.

"Let's just get on with it," he said, drawing Elijah in for a kiss.

No one could have explained later how the three of them got upstairs to Damon's bedroom. Some combination of need and want and urgency, some heady blend of strength and willing meant they were suddenly in Damon's room with the door shut against the night. In a classic twist on an old theme, Elijah had Damon hard up against the wall, and Alaric leaned back against the pillows on the bed, happy, naked, unsatisfied, and invigorated, watching it unfold, watching Damon unspool under the relentless ministrations of Elijah's fingers and lips.

When the tables turned, it was extraordinary to watch. Elijah, who defined control, being stripped naked one piece of clothing at a time under Damon's determined hands, grunting low, submitting so beautifully. Alaric braced himself as Damon manhandled Elijah toward the bed, watched as Elijah let himself be led, relishing the loss of control, needing it, perhaps. Alaric nestled in behind Elijah and kissed the back of his neck, grinding his erection against Elijah's back as Damon stripped off the last of his clothes.

"Watch," Alaric whispered against Elijah's neck. Not that Elijah needed to be told.

Alaric always appreciated Damon's commitment to getting naked as quickly as possible; it appealed to the hedonistic streak Alaric had been developing since their relationship started.

Suddenly, Elijah was twisting in Alaric's arms, rounding on him, pinning him to the bed, devouring his mouth until Alaric's vision blurred, the weight of Elijah so much more than what he wore on his frame; somehow, the years left traces like heavy metal in his bones. Still it was a surprise when he cupped Alaric's jaw in his hand, angling Alaric's face up for a softer kiss.

Damon lay alongside them a moment, and ran his fingers over Alaric's arm.

Alaric could feel his heart hammer away in his chest; knew to Elijah and Damon, it was probably deafening. Alaric reminded himself again just how fucking dangerous this was. He tried to tamp down the brief flare of fear, knowing too much of that, and they'd both smell it on him. Alaric was (quietly, silently, unspoken aloud) in love with Damon, but still careful never to forget for a second what he really was; and Elijah, Alaric reminded himself, was too old to have much respect left at all for human life.

Although he was getting the job done with this kiss.

Alaric drew away, for a moment. "Elijah," he said, gentle and firm. "Remember I'm human."

Elijah shook his head. "How could I forget that?" Lowering his mouth again, but Alaric pushed him away, just a notch.

"You could kill me. Accidentally. Easily." Alaric tried not to picture, in his mind's eye, a tomcat that bats a mouse around for long moments before realising he's already killed it.

Elijah looked curious, almost; Alaric wondered if Elijah had ever done anything accidentally in all of his very long life. Still, he tossed his eyebrows in the air, nonchalant, nodded, and reached for Alaric's erection, teasing and twisting as if to prove how careful he could be.

Alaric felt an indescribable sound erupt from his throat, found himself reaching around Elijah's back, drawing his fingers across Elijah's neck, pulling him in closer, and then turning to kiss Damon, who was watching the proceedings with obscenely swollen lips and heavy eyelids.

Alaric reminded himself there was no space for a relationship in a bed with three people in it, but still, the sight of Damon's burning eyes above the mild trace of darkening capillaries below made him consider, briefly, throwing Elijah out of the room altogether.

Elijah seemed to sense the shift on the air, let Damon draw Alaric into his arms. Alaric kept his eyes open, kissing Damon deeply, trying to communicate without words. This is just tonight. I'm all yours.

Suddenly Alaric was being turned in Damon's lap, his back against Damon's chest, Damon's arms wrapped around him as Elijah mouthed his way up Alaric's inner thighs, making Alaric's hips roll, until Elijah's mouth closed over his cock.

It seemed to Alaric that he should say something to this, so he let forth a stream of obscenities that made Elijah smile and flick his eyes to meet Alaric's. Damon reached for the top of Elijah's head, tugging a little at his hair until Elijah reached one hand up to grip Damon's arm. Then their rhythm was perfect, too fucking perfect, and with Damon's mouth on his shoulder, Elijah's mouth so perfect and so perfectly obscene and firm and tight, Alaric was perilously close to the edge, altogether too soon. Urgently and reluctantly, he dislodged Elijah's mouth.

Elijah looked confused.

"Human, remember?" Alaric was a little incoherent, a little frustrated, straining for release, but determined to take his time. "Can't go all night the way you two can. I have to pace myself."

Elijah looked irritated, but he let Alaric climb out of Damon's lap, repositioned himself over Damon.

"You should turn him, Damon," Elijah said, as if Alaric wasn't even there.

"Not until he asks me to," Damon answered, running a thumb over Elijah's jaw.

Elijah leaned to run his mouth over the hard planes of Damon's abdomen, gripping Damon's hips, and then ran kiss-swollen lips over the painfully hard length of Damon's dick.

Damon and Alaric shared an amused look, which was broken when Damon suddenly rolled his whole body, thrusting up, the expression on his face speaking volumes.

Alaric felt suddenly jealous; together, Elijah and Damon weren't cautious, weren't careful, not the way Damon had to be with Alaric. Damon's eyes fluttered shut, he bit into his lip, just drawing blood, and let out a nearly subsonic moan.

Alaric reached a hand out, let his fingers play across Elijah's spine. A thank you, for making Damon make that face. Elijah's eyes shot sideways, meeting Alaric's. He seemed to understand; nodded, almost, but remained focussed on the task at hand.

There was a little blood dripping from the corner of Elijah's mouth, and no matter how wrong it was, Alaric found it unbearably erotic. He'd bitten Damon, a little, probably just grazed his fangs enough to tear the flesh – it had probably already healed – but Damon actually liked it; had his hand in Elijah's hair, anchoring him in place, even as his body continued to arch up.

The whole tableau told Alaric quite a bit about Elijah's tendencies, too, and it made him want to fuck Elijah hard, tear him apart inside.

A few moments later and not for the first time grateful for Damon's improbably large bed, Alaric positioned himself behind Elijah, well lubricated, and with very little warning, entered Elijah with one smooth thrust.

Some combination of size (impressive, Alaric knew), angle (definitely awesome) and a mouth full of Damon's blood had Elijah throw his head back and groan, driving backwards into Alaric's hips. Damon and Alaric's eyes met again, holding fierce over several minutes of ferocious thrusts which had Elijah threatening to unspool between them, until by silent agreement, they shifted Elijah until both he and Alaric were lying on their sides, and Damon leaned in to kiss Elijah, far gentler than Alaric was fucking him.

The fact Elijah was willing to be shifted, that he submitted willingly and beautifully to being arranged, disarranged, was intriguing all by itself.

When Damon snaked a creeping hand around, tangling it into Alaric's hair, Alaric couldn't take it any longer; came with an exuberant shout, mouthing against Elijah's neck. Still rolling his hips, like an echo, Alaric slumped against Elijah's broad back.

After a long beat Elijah pulled away, off Alaric's sadly softening cock, turned to face him; to wrap his arms around him, to kiss his face; expression still controlled, but no longer well-controlled. Elijah clearly meant what he said. After a thousand years of existence, perhaps the only thing that could continue to make the days tolerable was this, or the promise of this; physical pleasure, being taken outside of yourself for moments or hours, the delicious touch of flesh, the beating of another person's heart. Elijah was as present in the moment as Alaric or Damon were, and it came as a surprise.

"You will be a magnificent vampire." Elijah spoke into Alaric's mouth, darting his tongue inside.

"You're just like Damon," Alaric answered. "Talking like it's a done deal."

Elijah shot Alaric a look, intrigued and amused. Perhaps he thought it was a done deal.

Elijah shifted his weight, suddenly, and rolled on top of Damon, rolling Damon onto his back, and for a moment, Alaric felt another flicker of jealousy; until the endless, aching shudder that slammed through Alaric's body as the blissed-out expression on Damon's face reminded him that they wanted this, they both wanted this. Alaric struggled to his knees, poured a generous amount of lube onto Elijah's offered fingers, and watched as Elijah stretched Damon out, more tender than expected.

"Hi," Damon said, strangely out of place, half-drunk expression on his pale features, and then groaned, stretched his body out, as Elijah lifted his hips off the bed, took him, took him hard, with urgent thrusts of his hips. Alaric smiled, relishing every moment. They were amazing together; not a thing held back. Every impossible angle made possible by way of vampire blood in vampire veins, vampire senses like electricity Alaric could almost smell. Like a rainstorm, or the promise of one.

Alaric turned his attention to Elijah, who was studying him with something resembling a challenge on his controlled features.

Controlled, but not well-controlled.

Alaric lay apart, still riding the aftershocks, enjoying every expression on Damon's face, the near helplessness of it. Reached out to touch Damon's face, loving the way Damon automatically turned to him, pushing his cheek against Alaric's hand. Alaric swiped his thumb over Damon's luscious mouth, reminding him that Elijah would be gone tomorrow but Alaric would still be here.

Even Elijah's orgasm was relatively controlled, though Damon's wasn't, coming between their bodies with a deep, low moan, a shudder rolling through his shoulders.

After a long moment, but ever courteous, Elijah slipped out, letting Damon's hips sink to the bed again. Slipped, slippery, to the edge of the bed so Alaric could look at Damon's face.

All three were silent a while, until Damon gave a chuckle. "I'd say this is going rather well," he admitted, recovering already, manhandling Alaric until Alaric's body was draped artlessly across his.

"We're not done, yet," Elijah answered, nothing short of a command, as Damon coaxed Alaric's mouth open with his own.

How it happened, Alaric wasn't sure, but short moments later, he was on his back again, and Damon loomed luminous, pale and glowing above him. Alaric stretched, felt his toes curl, saw Damon's shoulders roll above him.

And then Damon's mouth was ghosting over the scar. Damon's scar. The handiwork of Damon's teeth and mouth. Alaric gripped the back of Damon's head, silent permission, and Damon bit down. Hard. Maybe a little harder than usual, because it hurt; but Alaric was floating in a stew of hormones, and suddenly didn't much care, felt himself moan.

Until Elijah bit down on the other side.

"Jesus fuck -"Alaric rolled his hips up, grateful for the firm, insistent pressure of a hand on his rapidly stiffening cock grounding him. For a moment, he was unsure of whose hand it was, but the unfamiliar rhythm quickly told him it was Elijah's.

But Damon and Elijah were drinking too hard; this wasn't a taste, it was a meal, and awash in hormones, it was as if they'd forgotten who he was. The sensation of blood rushing to the twin wounds ignited a sudden, all-encompassing fear, and Alaric started to feel dizzy.

"Uh…" he started. "Elijah? Damon?"

Alaric felt the urgent need to act, started to push their heads away, but neither seemed to notice. He started to struggle, panicked, head suddenly aching.

"Stop," he said, hating the pleading sound in his voice, needing it to be a command. Damon understood a moment before Elijah did, looking up with eyes first lidded and then alarmed, and quickly turned to push Elijah away as well.

"Elijah. We're killing him."

Elijah looked up from heavily lidded eyes and understood as well. He pulled away, something like surprise on his face.

Alaric felt suddenly, horribly vulnerable.

Thought for a moment about trying to make a run for it, and reminded himself that he trusted Damon; reached for Damon's shoulder, reminding him he had to step up.

Damon and Elijah looked at each other, looked at Alaric.

Suddenly, almost as if it was an afterthought, Elijah bit into his own wrist, offering it up to Alaric. Alaric felt his eyes flutter closed against the thought; imagined Elijah snapping his neck, offering his infected, dead body up to Damon as a gift. One thing he was sure of; if he ever turned, it would be by virtue of Damon's blood.

"No," Damon said. Strong and insistent. Bit into his own wrist instead, and Alaric (defying every rule he'd ever written about their relationship) grabbed the wrist in both hands, drinking as a man who missed his red wine like an old lover would have, drank too hard and too much and it was all too good.

The effect was instantaneous; Alaric felt the strength return to him, the wounds knit closed. Felt Elijah's hand in his hair, and when Damon pulled his wrist away from Alaric's mouth (had to pull, to tear; Alaric didn't want to let go), replacing it with his own lips, felt the Original run lips and tongue over Alaric's shoulder.

It was wrong, and so right, and dirty, and so fucking gorgeous, and under the influence of vampire blood, it lasted until the sun started to seep into the room. The three of them bit, and fed, and fucked, until Alaric couldn't keep his eyes open for another second. He was pulled under by sleep as he watched Damon and Elijah devour each other on the bed beside him.

In the morning, with the sunlight that played through the windows also playing across Alaric's skin, and Damon's own, Damon watched Alaric sleep. Their legs were somewhat tangled, like they were most mornings, and Alaric's breath was slow and sweet.

Alaric twitched, suddenly, starting to wake, and seemed amused to find Damon studying him. Stretching, yawning, he hooked an arm around Damon's neck, pulling him in for the first kiss of the day.

"I should feel terrible," Alaric said. "I got fucked six ways to Sunday last night."

"My blood," Damon whispered into his mouth. "See? I keep offering, and you keep saying no. You should learn to say yes. Loudly, and frequently, like you did last night."

Alaric smiled against Damon's lips, pushed against his chest, huge warm hands splayed over Damon's slightly cool body. Alaric on vampire blood had been a thing to behold. Wanton. Glorious. The memory of it, of not holding back, of the extra strength in Alaric's arms, of Alaric's teeth biting into Damon's shoulder, roused him to half-hard again.

Alaric had probably drunk a little too much, but Damon didn't regret letting him. Strummed elegant fingers over Alaric's scar, barely raised ridges of paler flesh. He was glad Elijah's bite didn't get a chance to scar. Vowed he'd never share Alaric again. Vowed it so loudly in his head that it spilled off his tongue.

"Not sharing you again, ever," he growled, biting at Alaric's lip.

With a surprised, blinking smile, Alaric lay back against the pillows, pulling Damon with him. Damon rested his head against Alaric's chest.

Something needed to be said, so Damon said it. "So… Sorry we nearly ate you." Lifted his head from Alaric's chest and quirked his features into something not quite apologetic. "Seems like I should get you a bouquet of flowers or a box of candy. But you know I won't. So, sorry."

Alaric grimaced. "I wouldn't have died for long, I guess. Magic ring and all."

"I thought you'd be all bitchy and self-righteous about it. Sorta hoped you might be." Damon cocked his chin fondly. "I like you bitchy and self-righteous."

Alaric shook his head. "Fucked out and cuddly, I'm afraid. Deal with it."

They lay silent, a long time, absorbing each other into their pores.

"I hate your ring, sometimes," Damon admitted. "We're too casual about it. What if it has a shelf-life? It fucked up the other week."

Alaric ran his thumb over Damon's arm, like a talisman. "You'll say anything to convince me to turn," he said at last, smile gone. Quiet and serious like a real history teacher. "So what stopped you from snapping my neck last night? I know you wanted to. Fuck, I think Elijah wanted you to."

Damon grimaced again, lifting his head to meet Alaric's eyes. "Yeah…"

But Alaric hadn't finished. "What's stopping you from killing me right now? I'm still full of vampire blood. I can feel it. I can smell everything, I can taste the air."

Damon's smile fell away. "I meant what I said. I won't do it until you ask me to." He shifted his weight until he could reach Alaric's mouth, nudged it open with his own. "Ric?"

"Yeah?" Alaric deepened the kiss. Pulled Damon closer.

"Ask me to," Damon said, soft and almost begging.

Alaric stilled.

"Not today."

Closest thing to a yes I've ever heard, Damon thought, climbing onto his lover's body, preparing to burn off the last of the blood in a heady morning rush.