[fic] playing Jesus to the lepers in your head
Title: playing Jesus to the lepers in your head
Author: badboy_fangirl
Characters/Pairings: Damon POV; Damon/Elena
Word Count: ~2000
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 (for unfortunately brief sexy times)
Spoilers: Everything through 4x10.
Summary: Reunions are everything bitter and sweet.
Author's notes: For the Porn Battle from the prompts of dream, fantasy, hunger, and revelation. Title lifted from U2's song, "One." [I'm not sure how porny something is supposed to be to qualify for the porn battle, and I think maybe this isn't very? Which just figures, I guess. Damn Damon and Elena.]
It had been a dream for so long, a fantasy really. Something that would never happen. Even when they made love all night long, even though he could feel that unspeakable word in her every touch, even though he was filled up to overflowing, he could never quite forget that what he would call it and what she would call it would be different.
And then he'd learned that even if she would call it that, it couldn't actually be that.
But then she said it. She really fucking said it, twice. It echoed in his ear, growing like a crescendo until what he might have ever been certain of in nearly 170 years of existence just magically disappeared.
She loves him. She fucking loves him, and there is nothing else to know. There just isn't.
So when she gets to the lake house in the middle of the night, he knows he should tell her about Jeremy and Klaus and Matt, but he doesn't; he just pulls her into his arms, and she murmurs wordless caresses against the skin of his neck.
The morning will be soon enough for all that. Light shining over everything dark and ugly. But for tonight? Tonight it's just her fingers interlocked with his and her leading him into the bedroom he's been sleeping in for the last week.
(It's Elena not caring that her brother and her ex-boyfriend are in the house with them as she shuts the door behind them. It's Elena being proud to be with him, and he knows that's got to be as fleeting as her love for him, so he revels in it, just a little.)
But once they're facing the old queen-sized bed, the brass knobs gleaming in the low lamp light, there's hesitation on both their parts. Damon's hungry for her, for her touch, for her mouth, for the words-god, he needs to hear those words again, see her face as she says them-but she looks at him shyly, so he says, "We should talk."
(Right, because he's the girl in this relationship. Obviously.)
She gives a little nod and lets go of his hand. She toes her Vans off and jumps onto the bed, bouncing into the center of it like she had that morning-that one glorious morning when he'd been ignorant and she'd been sexy as fuck and they'd come at the same exact moment.
(So, now he's hard, but it's still a bit awkward, so he doesn't jump on the bed to join her. He walks to the right side and climbs on, because they have sides, even though they've technically slept together twice.)
(Once, they actually slept, in Elena's bed. The other time, they hardly slept at all while they almost destroyed his. It had been built to endure vampire sex, but he'd still wondered if they could wreck it. They sure as hell gave it the ol' college try.)
He leans back, and before his head even hits the pillow, she's on top of him. Maybe it's not so awkward, after all. She kisses his mouth, his chin, his cheeks, the end of his nose. It's somehow the sweetest and most annoying experience of his life all at once, so he flips them both over, and she makes an "Uff" sound before she starts giggling madly. He feels her thighs spread beneath him and then he's cradled against the heart of her, and she cants her hips upward so their jeans rub together enticingly.
Their eyes meet, and the happiness shining out of her face is enough to make him forget all over again.
It had been the revelation of the century.
(I love you, Damon. I love you.)
She might as well have said, the sky is purple and dinosaurs are back, for all the sense it made.
Elena Gilbert in love with him? Yeah, right.
"I loved you before, you know," she says, her gaze flitting back and forth between his eyes and his mouth. Her tongue slides out, wetting her lips, and he wonders if she has any idea how sexy everything she does is. Because he can't get over it. He can't wrap his head around it. He can't fucking believe it.
(He believes it completely, for the first time in almost two centuries, the hole in his chest feels plugged up, repaired.
He is whole, only with her, because of her, for her.)
(For the briefest of moments. Revel, revel, revel!)
"Before what?" he manages to ask, though he's pretty sure he doesn't need to know. All he needs is this moment, this truth, right here, right now. Tomorrow will have its own set of rules. Today is the day she loves him.
"Before I turned. I realize it now. I can see it better, more clearly. When I look back, I see how it all happened, some of it when I was with Stefan, some of it after he was gone. The biggest piece the night I died." She pauses, and her hand reaches up to cup his cheek. "The most amazing part was Wickery Bridge though. We died together, Damon. Only to live again. Only to be able to really live."
She smiles, her eyes bright with tears. "It's sort of poetic."
He kisses her because the romantic schmuck inside him cannot handle this, cannot let her say these idiotic, heart-tightening things. He can't do anything except love her like there's no chance of ever doing it again, because he knows there isn't.
His noble intentions involve pleasuring her into delirium, because he knows how to read her, so well, so quickly. They have a shorthand that should only come with time and practice, and he can't explain it anymore than the other mysterious and miraculous things that have happened to him because of Elena Gilbert.
The problem is that their shorthand translates both ways; so when she slides her fingers into the front of his jeans and sinks her fangs into his neck simultaneously, he comes hotly. She laughs, gurgling on his blood as she strokes him through it, until he's rolling away from her because he's so sensitive he can't handle her touch.
Then she's on top of him again, and she sits back against his thighs and pulls her sweater off slowly. She smiles as her hair spills over her shoulders, and when his hands go to the bottom of her white camisole, she bats them away. "No, I wanna do it," she murmurs, and the striptease goes on, and he can't imagine that he ever thought they might just lay here and talk all night.
The cami flies across the room and then her fingers go to the front clasp of her lacy, cream-colored bra. She unhooks it with slow deliberation and lets the cups slowly slide apart, each of her nipples making very pointed appearances so that all Damon wants to do is lunge up and take one between his teeth.
She's never held back with him, that much he knows, but this is all new, this sweet confidence; there is something impish in her expression, as though she can tell how much of this is pure pleasure for him and pure torture, too. She holds him still with nothing but her eyes; he won't do anything until she gives the okay, but that's only because he knows she's going to give it.
"I love you, Damon," she says, and this is as much a declaration for him as it is the command phrase.
"I love you, Elena," he responds, and then she's in his arms and the rest is blurry, heightened desperation that could either be because six days apart had been too many, or because the next time they separate, he's sure she won't come back.
Not after she knows what he's done.
There is the yelling, and the crying, and the throwing of things.
There is the drive home where he tries to keep her tail lights in his sights, but she manages to lose him more than once.
There is the moment on her front porch when he says, "I'll call you when Jeremy's mark is complete."
And then there's her incredulous, furious retort, "So that's it? You're going to run out on me now?"
He just looks at her because she's across the threshold and glaring back at him with accusatory hands on her hips and he has no idea what to say. Words trip out of his mouth painfully, and she flinches as she listens. "I just thought...you'd rather not....see me...until you have to?" He ends up making it a question because he's confused, befuddled, wretched.
She starts in on what she's had to go through to even get to this point, and he finally finds some anger beneath all his pathetic-ness to interrupt her with, "This is typical, Elena. Typical. Love is conditional upon expectations, and I told you a long time ago that I don't do that. I don't live up to expectations, unless of course the expectations are that I'm going to mess it up, remember? What if there was no bump? There will always be a bump, because I'm always going to do whatever I have to, to keep you safe!"
She's suddenly back through the door, standing right in front of him, gripping the lapels of his jacket in her hands. "Ask me the most important question, Damon! Ask me!"
There are too many things swirling through his brain for him to know which important question she's referring to. He searches her eyes, watches as tears well up and trickle over the edges of her eyelids. "Ask me," she whispers, "do you want the cure, Elena?"
His breath stops; maybe his heart does, too. Of course, she wants the cure, of course she wants to go back. Everything was so much simpler then, wasn't it?
(He doesn't want to know if she wants it; it's easier to assume that she does, but never make her say it. Don't tell him the truth, not about that.)
So he says the only thing that makes sense. "It's the only way to know if the sire bond created this, or if we did."
She tilts her head slightly and her eyes go soft. "You don't believe it either way, Damon. You think I'd say I love you and then send you away because you did something I don't like. You don't get it, but neither did I. I love you, no matter what. Just like you love me, whether I'm human or a vampire, whether I love you back or leave you to die alone." Her fists tighten, dragging him closer. "Ask me the most important question."
Damon swallows, the lump in his throat too big to speak around. "Do you want the cure, Elena?"
She presses forward, mashing her mouth against his, and speed walks them into the house, slamming the door behind them. Damon puts his hands up as she shoves him into the unforgiving wood, tries to relinquish any power he might still hold. She breathes, "No," against his lips, and he finally gets it.
It can't be undone, not now. They can never go back.
(Even if they went back, it's all different now.)
Elena makes love to him in her bed, and he can feel fury in her every movement.
It's something new to revel in, because Damon understands this even better. Fury is what has fueled him his entire existence.
She lies quietly in his arms afterwards, and then speaks his thoughts aloud. "We have to find it first, though. That way no one makes me take it."
He cuddles her closer. "I know."
(That's the dream, a fantasy really.)
(That's the one they'll die for.)
Author: badboy_fangirl
Characters/Pairings: Damon POV; Damon/Elena
Word Count: ~2000
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 (for unfortunately brief sexy times)
Spoilers: Everything through 4x10.
Summary: Reunions are everything bitter and sweet.
Author's notes: For the Porn Battle from the prompts of dream, fantasy, hunger, and revelation. Title lifted from U2's song, "One." [I'm not sure how porny something is supposed to be to qualify for the porn battle, and I think maybe this isn't very? Which just figures, I guess. Damn Damon and Elena.]
It had been a dream for so long, a fantasy really. Something that would never happen. Even when they made love all night long, even though he could feel that unspeakable word in her every touch, even though he was filled up to overflowing, he could never quite forget that what he would call it and what she would call it would be different.
And then he'd learned that even if she would call it that, it couldn't actually be that.
But then she said it. She really fucking said it, twice. It echoed in his ear, growing like a crescendo until what he might have ever been certain of in nearly 170 years of existence just magically disappeared.
She loves him. She fucking loves him, and there is nothing else to know. There just isn't.
So when she gets to the lake house in the middle of the night, he knows he should tell her about Jeremy and Klaus and Matt, but he doesn't; he just pulls her into his arms, and she murmurs wordless caresses against the skin of his neck.
The morning will be soon enough for all that. Light shining over everything dark and ugly. But for tonight? Tonight it's just her fingers interlocked with his and her leading him into the bedroom he's been sleeping in for the last week.
(It's Elena not caring that her brother and her ex-boyfriend are in the house with them as she shuts the door behind them. It's Elena being proud to be with him, and he knows that's got to be as fleeting as her love for him, so he revels in it, just a little.)
But once they're facing the old queen-sized bed, the brass knobs gleaming in the low lamp light, there's hesitation on both their parts. Damon's hungry for her, for her touch, for her mouth, for the words-god, he needs to hear those words again, see her face as she says them-but she looks at him shyly, so he says, "We should talk."
(Right, because he's the girl in this relationship. Obviously.)
She gives a little nod and lets go of his hand. She toes her Vans off and jumps onto the bed, bouncing into the center of it like she had that morning-that one glorious morning when he'd been ignorant and she'd been sexy as fuck and they'd come at the same exact moment.
(So, now he's hard, but it's still a bit awkward, so he doesn't jump on the bed to join her. He walks to the right side and climbs on, because they have sides, even though they've technically slept together twice.)
(Once, they actually slept, in Elena's bed. The other time, they hardly slept at all while they almost destroyed his. It had been built to endure vampire sex, but he'd still wondered if they could wreck it. They sure as hell gave it the ol' college try.)
He leans back, and before his head even hits the pillow, she's on top of him. Maybe it's not so awkward, after all. She kisses his mouth, his chin, his cheeks, the end of his nose. It's somehow the sweetest and most annoying experience of his life all at once, so he flips them both over, and she makes an "Uff" sound before she starts giggling madly. He feels her thighs spread beneath him and then he's cradled against the heart of her, and she cants her hips upward so their jeans rub together enticingly.
Their eyes meet, and the happiness shining out of her face is enough to make him forget all over again.
It had been the revelation of the century.
(I love you, Damon. I love you.)
She might as well have said, the sky is purple and dinosaurs are back, for all the sense it made.
Elena Gilbert in love with him? Yeah, right.
"I loved you before, you know," she says, her gaze flitting back and forth between his eyes and his mouth. Her tongue slides out, wetting her lips, and he wonders if she has any idea how sexy everything she does is. Because he can't get over it. He can't wrap his head around it. He can't fucking believe it.
(He believes it completely, for the first time in almost two centuries, the hole in his chest feels plugged up, repaired.
He is whole, only with her, because of her, for her.)
(For the briefest of moments. Revel, revel, revel!)
"Before what?" he manages to ask, though he's pretty sure he doesn't need to know. All he needs is this moment, this truth, right here, right now. Tomorrow will have its own set of rules. Today is the day she loves him.
"Before I turned. I realize it now. I can see it better, more clearly. When I look back, I see how it all happened, some of it when I was with Stefan, some of it after he was gone. The biggest piece the night I died." She pauses, and her hand reaches up to cup his cheek. "The most amazing part was Wickery Bridge though. We died together, Damon. Only to live again. Only to be able to really live."
She smiles, her eyes bright with tears. "It's sort of poetic."
He kisses her because the romantic schmuck inside him cannot handle this, cannot let her say these idiotic, heart-tightening things. He can't do anything except love her like there's no chance of ever doing it again, because he knows there isn't.
His noble intentions involve pleasuring her into delirium, because he knows how to read her, so well, so quickly. They have a shorthand that should only come with time and practice, and he can't explain it anymore than the other mysterious and miraculous things that have happened to him because of Elena Gilbert.
The problem is that their shorthand translates both ways; so when she slides her fingers into the front of his jeans and sinks her fangs into his neck simultaneously, he comes hotly. She laughs, gurgling on his blood as she strokes him through it, until he's rolling away from her because he's so sensitive he can't handle her touch.
Then she's on top of him again, and she sits back against his thighs and pulls her sweater off slowly. She smiles as her hair spills over her shoulders, and when his hands go to the bottom of her white camisole, she bats them away. "No, I wanna do it," she murmurs, and the striptease goes on, and he can't imagine that he ever thought they might just lay here and talk all night.
The cami flies across the room and then her fingers go to the front clasp of her lacy, cream-colored bra. She unhooks it with slow deliberation and lets the cups slowly slide apart, each of her nipples making very pointed appearances so that all Damon wants to do is lunge up and take one between his teeth.
She's never held back with him, that much he knows, but this is all new, this sweet confidence; there is something impish in her expression, as though she can tell how much of this is pure pleasure for him and pure torture, too. She holds him still with nothing but her eyes; he won't do anything until she gives the okay, but that's only because he knows she's going to give it.
"I love you, Damon," she says, and this is as much a declaration for him as it is the command phrase.
"I love you, Elena," he responds, and then she's in his arms and the rest is blurry, heightened desperation that could either be because six days apart had been too many, or because the next time they separate, he's sure she won't come back.
Not after she knows what he's done.
There is the yelling, and the crying, and the throwing of things.
There is the drive home where he tries to keep her tail lights in his sights, but she manages to lose him more than once.
There is the moment on her front porch when he says, "I'll call you when Jeremy's mark is complete."
And then there's her incredulous, furious retort, "So that's it? You're going to run out on me now?"
He just looks at her because she's across the threshold and glaring back at him with accusatory hands on her hips and he has no idea what to say. Words trip out of his mouth painfully, and she flinches as she listens. "I just thought...you'd rather not....see me...until you have to?" He ends up making it a question because he's confused, befuddled, wretched.
She starts in on what she's had to go through to even get to this point, and he finally finds some anger beneath all his pathetic-ness to interrupt her with, "This is typical, Elena. Typical. Love is conditional upon expectations, and I told you a long time ago that I don't do that. I don't live up to expectations, unless of course the expectations are that I'm going to mess it up, remember? What if there was no bump? There will always be a bump, because I'm always going to do whatever I have to, to keep you safe!"
She's suddenly back through the door, standing right in front of him, gripping the lapels of his jacket in her hands. "Ask me the most important question, Damon! Ask me!"
There are too many things swirling through his brain for him to know which important question she's referring to. He searches her eyes, watches as tears well up and trickle over the edges of her eyelids. "Ask me," she whispers, "do you want the cure, Elena?"
His breath stops; maybe his heart does, too. Of course, she wants the cure, of course she wants to go back. Everything was so much simpler then, wasn't it?
(He doesn't want to know if she wants it; it's easier to assume that she does, but never make her say it. Don't tell him the truth, not about that.)
So he says the only thing that makes sense. "It's the only way to know if the sire bond created this, or if we did."
She tilts her head slightly and her eyes go soft. "You don't believe it either way, Damon. You think I'd say I love you and then send you away because you did something I don't like. You don't get it, but neither did I. I love you, no matter what. Just like you love me, whether I'm human or a vampire, whether I love you back or leave you to die alone." Her fists tighten, dragging him closer. "Ask me the most important question."
Damon swallows, the lump in his throat too big to speak around. "Do you want the cure, Elena?"
She presses forward, mashing her mouth against his, and speed walks them into the house, slamming the door behind them. Damon puts his hands up as she shoves him into the unforgiving wood, tries to relinquish any power he might still hold. She breathes, "No," against his lips, and he finally gets it.
It can't be undone, not now. They can never go back.
(Even if they went back, it's all different now.)
Elena makes love to him in her bed, and he can feel fury in her every movement.
It's something new to revel in, because Damon understands this even better. Fury is what has fueled him his entire existence.
She lies quietly in his arms afterwards, and then speaks his thoughts aloud. "We have to find it first, though. That way no one makes me take it."
He cuddles her closer. "I know."
(That's the dream, a fantasy really.)
(That's the one they'll die for.)