Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Spoilers: Up to 3x15
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just borrowing it.
There's always been something inherently sexual about their interactions. If pressed for words, Elena thinks that she probably wouldn't be able to articulate the feeling, but the entirety of their relationship can probably be summarized (at least partially) into the number of times that she's wondered if he was going to kiss her. She's not sure that she would have said no the first time; True, she was terrified, and he had moved so fast that she thought her heart was going to burst from between the wings of her ribcage, but she still remembers the soft caress of his nose against her jugular, and in memory she's not convinced that her shuddering was entirely from fear.
By rights, she ought to have been traumatized. She'd spent the day in a labyrinth of tunnels, with Rebekah no less (the threat of being torched alone should have made her want to get as many miles between herself and the Mikaelsons as physically possible. China should have been the most attractive place on the planet), and yet after she'd finished visiting Bonnie, after she'd been turned away by Caroline, and after she'd returned to her own home, all she could really think about was that she was terrified. Terrified that she'd ruined something precious with her duplicity. Terrified that she was never going to find out what all of this had been building up to.
So she'd done something incredibly stupid, and impulsive, and if she had bothered to tell anyone, she's sure they would have asked her if she was high (Okay, maybe Damon is the only one who would have worded it that way, but the sentiment would have remained). She'd invited Elijah Mikaelson, the man who had endangered her life to the lake cabin. A remote area, with no one else around for quite a distance. She'd only wanted to talk, but in the end, convinced that he wasn't coming after all, she had started getting ready for bed. The knock on the door came as a surprise, and she rushed (Without thinking. Why was she always doing things like this?) to open the door, only to realize abruptly that she was wearing a tiny robe when his face froze, and he got a very distant, but very engrossed expression. It wasn't the lascivious look that Damon would have given her, or the openly adoring one with which Stefan might have graced her. Instead, he looked at her as if she'd done something intensely interesting. She almost had to laugh.
She hadn't meant to start…well…stripping. It's just that her instincts had been singing while her brain was repeating 'This is such a bad idea' over and over again, and she was a teenage girl, with hormones all over the place, and fuck, she wasn't BLIND. He'd said her name, she'd let her robe sag just a little, and the look in his eyes goaded her on, until she was splayed in front of him, boneless as a victim of trauma on an old wooden chair, and he is looking at her like he is about to do something reckless.
"Elijah…would you like to come in?
Her voice is too breathy, and she blushes a little, but suddenly she feels the wall against her back, the wind in her hair, and her eyes couldn't possibly get wider, because she's flush against him before she even hears the chair hit the floor. The expression on his face parts her lips, hoods her eyes, and makes her want to kiss him, until he ducks in, and immediately she experiences a sense of déjà vu; his nose tickling along the side of her neck. He doesn't pull away, and she feels hot breath in her ear as he rumbles his words, the vibration in his chest making her shiver.
When he pulls away, the look he gives her is almost the same as the first time that they met, and it turns her bones to jelly. His hands are braced at either side of her head, and it should be menacing, but all she can think is that it leaves her hands free. She likes to think that she surprises him; his expression certainly gives her that impression when she rocks up onto her tip toes, and presses an open-mouthed kiss to his lips, tongue tracing against the lower. Despite the wanton nature of the action, the kiss is sweet; his lips part almost hesitantly, and she can taste his breath on her tongue. She ruins it by taking his lower lip in her teeth. The noise he makes in response, she can only think of as a growl; he presses his mouth to hers in a heated meeting of tongues and teeth; all passion, no finesse, and it's as exhilarating a sensation as she's ever experienced, because this is maybe the third time that she's ever seen him lose control, and it never gets any less enthralling.
She realizes, belatedly, that her hands are still free; he's moved both of his to cradle her skull, and he's using his body and the wall to keep her pressed tightly to his chest. She tugs at the lapels of his coat, fingers moving down to trace over the place where the edges overlap. She tries not to break the kiss; she wants him out of his clothes, but she's conflicted because she also wants to keep kissing him, and for the moment instant gratification is going to win. His hands slide from her hair, and he pulls away, just a little; their lips are practically still touching, and she's distracted. He's usually so careful with his things, but he slides his suit jacket off with his coat (Three fucking layers. Are you kidding?) and she doesn't think about it as she uses her foot to push the pile away. Her hands are too busy with his tie, which she uses to pull him closer again; she swallows it when he laughs into her mouth, and then decides that he isn't naked enough (it's only fair) and slides her fingers into the spaces between his buttons.
He smirks into the kiss; she can tell from the shape of his lips on hers, and it strikes her as terribly patronizing, so she tugs at both edges, reveling in the surprised stiffening of his shoulders as buttons go pinging across the room every which way. His surprise makes him slow, and she takes advantage, because a girl has to make her own fun; She pulls away from the kiss, and tries not to smile at the dark look in his eyes, but maybe he can see it, lurking under the skin, because he makes that lovely grumbling noise again, and his hands pull at his tie until he can discard the damn thing.
"You have…too many…fucking…buttons."
She all but pants, fumbling with the cuffs at his wrists (are those fucking cuff links?) which prove to be really hard to get undone in a hurry. He has to help her, which is pretty nice, because that keeps him distracted while her fingers are roaming over smooth planes of flesh; the lay of his bones in a sea of skin and muscle and the things in between. He takes a step back, saying something under his breath that she suspects is a curse, but she doesn't consider it thoroughly because one of his arms is still trapped, and she's the sort of girl that usually makes use of her advantages. Especially where he is concerned.
He's too fast for her (Fucking vampires), and his shirt is across the room by the time she's made the decision to try and molest him while he's occupied. He pushes her back toward the wall by her shoulders, and she rewards his efforts by whining, and trying to wiggle away. He frowns, and uses his superior size to sandwich her between himself and the wall, and she can't keep a smile off of her face as she arches her back, and rocks her hips suggestively against his.
He lets out a noise of frustration, and she lets out one that ought to have been a laugh, but turned into something breathier and much more pleased with itself on its way out of her mouth. He leans in close, and again, (why is this always happening?) she thinks he's going to kiss her, but his lips stray to her ear instead. He laves at the lobe, and mouths at the skin just underneath before speaking, because Elijah always takes his time. Always.
"You…are a wicked little tease."
Is what he says, and before she has time to process this, he's heaved her up into his arms like something out of 'Gone with the Wind'. It annoys her. She retaliates, and bites him, but it just makes him laugh, because she's got dull, omnivorous teeth, and really, it's kind of like a kitten trying to scratch a tiger. She whines against the skin of his shoulder, because he's not moving fast enough, and she's ready to go again, even though she just came. He smiles, like she's being particularly adorable, and kicks the bedroom door shut behind them.
The mirror is what he was aiming for, apparently. He sets her down in front of it, and hooks an arm around her waist that keeps her from turning and trying to wrestle him bodily out of his belt. She gives a dirty look to their reflections, and opens her mouth, because she fully intends to tell him that this is not what she wants to be doing at this particular moment, but he leans down, voice low and masculine, and lovely.
"I want you to see exactly what I saw."
For a moment she can't quite convince her limbs to obey.
Elena stares at their reflections; her small, thin frame outlined by his larger, more masculine one, the flesh of his pale hands a stark contrast against the burnished olive of her skin. She ought to be a little bit embarrassed by the liquid ink of her eyes, and the flush of her swollen lips, but her heart is beating a little too fast for her to fully concentrate on her surroundings. Unfortunately, Elijah is considerably more mobile, which doesn't bode well-At least, not for her. He backs up against the side of the bed, and sits, hands ringing her waist just above her hip bones, and after pausing momentarily, he pulls her firmly into his lap, pushing her hair back over one shoulder so that he can continue to watch them in the mirror.
Elena shudders slightly, skittish for just a moment of settling into his arms. It's silly; He's already seen almost every part of her thanks to that little strip-tease affair, but she's still shy as she meets his gaze in the mirror, and the fact that his own expression is inscrutable doesn't help matters at all. Watching him, she slowly relaxes, the naked skin of her back curved against his bare chest. He doesn't react the way she thought he would (He is forever surprising her-to the extent that it should almost cease to be surprising at all). Instead his arm circles gently around her thin shoulders, his thumb brushing along the edge of her jaw, and pushing her face away so that he can inhale her scent. He mouths at her bare skin; wet tongue touching smooth flesh as if he is incapable of stopping himself.
She lets out a soft little sound that would shame her at any other time, and she feels him smile against her skin, just before she feels the playful brush of dull human teeth against her shoulder. She makes another sound, this time out of frustration, and tries to turn, because she wants to touch him, and is tired of playing games. His grip tightens, and he pulls away from her neck, a self satisfied smirk gracing his features.
"Patience, Miss Gillbert."
She makes a face at him, and he chuckles in a way that makes her insides go gooey.
She is about to open her mouth to say something-She's not quite sure what, but there are words crowding up from her diaphragm that die on the way through her vocal cords because his hand is brushing over the skin of her shoulder and down over her breast. The rough pad of his thumb rubs against a nipple, and she squirms, but his arm around her waist is uncompromising. He clearly wants to torment her. She's almost sure that she's going to ruin his trousers.
He brushes her nipple again, slowly, and it makes her throb a little bit, in a way that she's never thought to describe before. He repeats the action, and she lets out a little huff of whose origin she isn't entirely certain. It could be frustration, or it could be contentment (because she IS. Content, that is), or it could be something altogether more urgent; her thoughts are all jumbled by the actions of his hand and the gleam of his eyes in the low light. She arches her back out of surprise rather than intent as he gently rolls her pebbled nipple between his fingers, the gasp she lets out is so harsh that it almost hurts.
His grip is too tight for her to get free without injury, and so she contents herself with looping an arm backward around his neck, and threading her fingers into his hair. Her free hand descends to rest against his forearm where he has it secured across her waist. She runs her nails across his scalp, and lets out a little whine, which only graces her with the slight rumble in his chest. She thinks he might be laughing at her, but then he leans in, breath hot against her ear.
"Open your legs for me, Elena."
She blushes, and meets his eyes in the mirror, and she doesn't quite know if her heart is thundering in anticipation, or because she's afraid, but she parts her legs, and he teasingly runs the tips of his fingers over the smooth flesh of her inner thigh. Down toward her knee he nudges her legs farther apart, and she flushes even further at the picture the two of them make.
He pauses for a moment, tracing circles on the inside of her knee, and then his fingers ghost back toward the junction of her thighs; teasingly light, excruciatingly slow. She doesn't know if arousal has ever felt so much like physical pain, but when he touches her folds, she lets out a noise that could almost be a hiccup, and tries to move her hips. Against his strength, her struggle is futile, but she can't help herself. She doesn't realize that her eyes have fallen closed until he pauses, and she opens them again, brows furrowed in confusion. His voice in her ear is low; lower than she's ever heard it before.
"Keep your eyes open. I want you to watch."
He chides, pausing for another moment-probably to make sure that she's paying attention-before returning to his work. She lets out another huff of frustration, and watches in the mirror, but her eyes grow hooded again when he rubs against her wetness, and slides his fingers up to the pearl of her clitoris. This time she lets out a more frantic whine as he rubs her clit in a slow, gentle circle, and she tries to move her hips up to increase the contact, but his arm restrains her, and he's strong enough to resist her half-hearted squirming.
This too is more of a whine than she had intended, and it slips out by accident, but the noise he makes against her ear, the expression that flickers over his face and the way the thumb of his securing hand strokes over the crest of her hip is pleased. His fingers speed up minutely against her aching flesh, and her eyes flutter as she arches her back uselessly against him. He slows down again, and she all but pants with the loss of sensation, brows furrowing with an expression that feels almost alarmed. Her reflection certainly looks devastated, and she might have laughed under any other circumstance.
"Say it again for me."
It's not quite a demand, but it might as well be, because his fingers still against her, and she finds herself complying without thought. At any other time she might have been offended, might have considered defiance, but her brain is so fuddled, that all she can think is that she needs him to keep touching her.
She begins in a breathy, quiet voice, but ends in a moan because he's touching her again; so slow that she almost feels like crying. She tugs at his hair, and watches their reflections, barely recognizing herself like this. His fingers speed up, and she feels almost like she's going to pass out, her pulse is quivering so quickly under her skin, but he's found a rhythm that she likes, and his name just keeps spilling from her lips like a mantra with each impotent rock of her pelvis. She feels like she's going to vibrate into pieces, like she should be terrified, but the only thought in her head is that if he stops she's going to die anyway.
He doesn't pause, but he must have some inkling that there's something coiling inside of her and spiraling out of her control, because as he flicks his fingers over the tender little bud of her sex, he leans down and whispers a demand in her ear.
"Elena…I want you to come for me."
And she does, harder than she's ever come in her life, the spike of pleasure so intense that her eyes flutter closed, and she is ruined, for just a few moments. She slumps against him, and feels half-heartedly lucky that he's there behind her, holding her up, because she certainly wouldn't have the presence of thought to do it herself. His hand is rubbing circles over her ribs, and he's kissing along her hairline, and she doesn't remember ever feeling this wrecked.
It takes her a few moments to come back to herself, and a minute or so after that for her to be legitimately aware of her surroundings, but when she does, she's vaguely disappointed that he still has his pants on, and stirs in his arms, sliding her feet back to the ground and balancing on them like a newborn colt. She wobbles a few times, using his knees to keep herself propped up, and then turns to look at him. Her decision takes only a moment; she remembers an old adage about getting back up on the horse, and watches him from under her lashes as she climbs up to straddle his thighs.
His jaw clenches just a little bit, and she's watching his face when she comes to the gleeful (if somewhat obvious) realization that he's hard beneath her. The wicked smile that she can feel crossing her features would probably be more at home on Katherine's face, but it doesn't stop her from cocking her head as she rests her hands on his broad, bare shoulders, and pushes him back. She's incapable of moving him anywhere that he doesn't want to go, but there's only a slight hesitation-a slight expression of indecision-before he allows his back to press down against the bed spread. He's looking at her with something that she can't describe as she rolls her hips experimentally against his hardness. His breath hitches, and inwardly, she crows in triumph.
If she looks at it objectively, there is no way that she can claim any desire to be helpful in this scenario. He's done something to her; without malice, she wants him to suffer as she has. It's not noble, and it's not nice, but it's true, and she takes some comfort in that as she rolls her hips slowly against his erection. He huffs a breath out through his teeth, and it could almost be a sort of self-deprecating laugh, if it didn't lack substance. He's such a controlled man, that it's kind of nice to hear him make a noise like that.
She rocks her hips against him, again, feeling almost as if she's coaxing him to something she hasn't quite conceptualized yet. She can't really quell the self-satisfied smile that crosses her features when she feels his pelvis shifting under her; pressing upward in a manner that is still too composed for her liking, but improving rapidly. He's watching her with this dark look in his eyes that she can't quite identify, but it makes her bite kiss-bruised lips, and lower her hands to the planes of his chest, because part of her feels like touching him might provide a distraction from that heated gaze. She realizes belatedly that she's never seen him without a shirt before, which is really a shame, because he's got a nice chest. Her fingers brush over his collar bones, and down the ridge of his sternum, and at this point she's ceased to be shy about the way that she touches him; like she belongs here, and has the right to as much of his skin as she wants.
Elijah jumps a little bit when her fingers descend past his ribs; She has to bite down hard on a smile, because the thought of a ticklish Original is incredibly amusing. Her hands continue down the flesh of his sides, and then cross to his belly, brushing carefully along the trail of hair that descends into the waistband of his pants. As her hands travel, his move to rest on her knees, thumbs stroking her skin almost absently. He looks eager (she thinks he does, anyway. It's so hard to tell with a face like his), but he isn't pushing, and part of her finds that really sweet. The rest of her doesn't quite know what to think, so she doesn't.
Her hands don't shake as she traces her fingers over the ridges of his belt; gentle tugs, exploring for the purpose of removing the offending article. She works it open, and makes a satisfied noise that almost merges with the slither of leather through belt loops, and the ultimate clank as she tosses it...somewhere else; she's not actually looking at anything but him.
He doesn't ask her if she's sure, or tell her that she doesn't have to do this, or undermine her in any way, and for that she's grateful. Not because she would ever change her mind, but because she is suddenly struck by the fact that this attitude characterizes their relationship; he has never questioned her autonomy, or her ability to make decisions. The realization brings a smile to her lips, and the quirk of his own, while not quite so open or dramatic, is all the urging she needs to unfasten the button of his trousers and draw the zipper down.
He shifts. It's a movement that is either nervous, or excited, though she can't quite tell which; he's still looking at her, and he's not emoting, but she can tell that he has stopped breathing entirely.
Elena wants to ask him why he just keeps watching her. She feels a little bit strange doing all the work, so she leans down, and nuzzles at his cheek, arms moving to rest at either side of his face. His hands move, and he's stroking her lower lip with his thumb, so she kisses the digit and flicks her tongue against the tip, a smile curling at the corners of her mouth without her consent. His eyes travel down to her lips, and he stares with an intensity that trails a shiver down her spine. He leans up, and she slides her arms to accommodate him, resting them on his shoulders as he moves to kiss her.
The kiss is hesitant, like exploring new territory, as if he almost thought she would pull away; it is a sweet kiss that lacks some of the earlier ferocity, but she likes it, and curls an arm around his neck to show him just how much. She feels his tongue trace along the crease of her lips, and opens them to deepen the contact in a decision as easy as breathing.
The slide of his tongue against hers, the way that their kiss goes from sweet to heated in an instant; these are things Elena believes that she could become addicted to. It begins as gentle, and somewhere in the middle she mews into his mouth, and shifts her hips just so, and then she finds herself on her back without really realizing how she'd gotten there.
She's only human; it takes her a moment or two to fully adjust, but Elijah is not a human, and he presses his advantage in the interim. It is a fact that Elena can't quite resent, because his mouth is hot along her jaw, and down her neck; his dull, human teeth feel even better as he leaves kisses and nips along her collar bones. Her thighs fall open without a thought, and she tilts her pelvis, hands pushing at the waistband of his pants in a manner that brooks no argument.
The look he's giving her makes her think that he's not in a position to argue anyway.
The slide of slick flesh against hard is a familiar jolt; like leaving a room and suddenly remembering why you entered in the first place. His jaw clenches, and she smiles under him, rolling her pelvis again, and enjoying the slow friction she's creating. He sighs against her skin, his own hips pressing down to meet hers eagerly, and the thought that he can't quite help himself sets her heart racing, and her fingers dancing down the skin of his back. She hooks her knee over the notch of his hip, she can feel the tension in him; one nudge here, a push there, and he will crack. She thinks it's the most exciting feeling she's ever experienced. His brows are furrowed; he looks like he wants to say something. That won't do at all.
"I want you inside of me."
There is no artifice to the breathy tone of her voice, or the hooded state of her eyes. She can practically see the words dying on his lips.
She's so wet that he slides easily to the apex of her thighs; he presses close, and pants hotly against the skin of her neck as he works his way inside of her. She lets out a little breathy sound of her own, tilting her pelvis up to meet his slow thrust. The stretch of her flesh as he fills her is a little bit overwhelming, and she finds her hands gripping at his shoulders, heart beating like a drum inside of her chest. He pulls away, and for a moment, she's worried that he's going to pull out too, and tightens her leg around his hip. His face stills of expression as her body clenches around him, but he meets her eyes, and watches her face as he slowly pulls out, and thrusts back in. She arches her back; he's angled himself upward against her inner wall, and he's pressing into something that makes her gasp and tighten her fingers against his flesh.
He pulls out slowly, and enters her again with just as much control. She moans, and it's almost a sound of pain as her back arches again. He's looking at her, and his eyes are hungry. She can't even breathe.
She breathes, almost pleading, and his next thrust is more solid. She can't help but whimper; she wants him to go faster, but he is immovable, and still watching; holding her gaze despite the fact that his breathing is slightly unsteady. She feels annoyed; she can't quite help it. By comparison he's so calm, and she feels like she isn't breathing, and she digs her nails into his flesh hard enough to draw blood. It's not fair that he gets to make her feel like this, and she doesn't get to watch him come undone in return.
His hips jerk a little bit, and he lets out a growl, leaning down to take a nipple in between his lips. He suckles at her flesh, and his right hand strays down between them to tickle his thumb over her clit. Her hips roll of their own accord, and she pants softly, threading fingers in his shorter hair. She is suddenly struck with the thought that she'd never told him how much she loved the new hair cut. Now isn't the time, but she pets it and then allows her hands to stray down to the crook of his neck. Her nails tickle down his vertebrae and between both shoulder blades, and he lets out another pleased sound, pulling his head away from her breast so that he can look at her face.
Elijah hastens the movement of his flesh against hers; she times her reactions so that they meet in the middle, and lets out a breathy cry when his hand falls between them to stroke her clitoris in lazy circles once again, sending an arc of electricity up her spine. His breath hitches (Finally) as she squeezes down on him, rolling her hips at a quicker tempo, and there is a blur of motion before he is underneath her, looking up. She thinks that maybe he did it to prolong this thing that they've started. She thinks that he has, once again, underestimated her.
She takes a moment; her hands travel to his shoulders to support herself, and she uses her arms and her legs to rise slightly off of him before thrusting back down again. With her in charge, the pace is faster, and he gives her that surprised-nearly shocked-look that he'd given her (she remembers him gasping like this before, only this time he's invited in, and he's not calling her Katarina) when she'd un-daggered him. His hands rise to her hips, and he's sitting up, and she doesn't mind, because with them working together it's so much better. She tries to keep her eyes on him, but the things he's doing to her body now that he's not rigid and aloof are so lovely that her back is arching like a bow, and her eyes flutter closed.
When he reaches down between them again, his thumb against her is almost too much, and she whines, shifting away. His other hand on her hip is uncompromising, and he keeps rubbing at her little bud, his thrusts growing more erratic.
When orgasm washes over her, her arms have migrated around his shoulders, and her nails do enough damage that if he were a human man he would be bleeding. He would have scars. Elijah is not a human man; He growls, and apparently the quivering of her flesh around him is too much, because he thrusts up into her a few times before letting out a groan. She can feel the prick of his fangs against her neck, but she's languid; near boneless and doesn't care. He doesn't bite her. Elijah is too much of a gentleman for that.
She kisses his throat, and he pants against her hairline, falling back against the mattress and taking her with. It takes her a minute or two to recollect herself, and when she does, she rolls off of him, and cuddles up against his side. They're both naked, but it doesn't seem to matter; her cheek rests against his chest, and his fingers comb through her hair, and he isn't breathing, but she almost thinks that she would pay her pound of flesh to make this moment last forever.
He kisses her forehead like she's something precious, and she leans in to kiss a scar at his shoulder. She doesn't know what to say, and so the silence stretches on until it doesn't. Elijah always seems to know the right words.
"I will have to sin more often, if this is the quality of my forgiveness."
She laughs, and smacks his shoulder.
Elijah just smiles.