[fic] Piano Man
Title: Piano Man
Author: badboy_fangirl
Characters/Pairings: Damon POV; Damon/Elena
Word Count: ~1300
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Spoilers: Everything through S3.
Summary: Damon's a player, always has been, always will be.
Author's notes: I blame upupa_epops. FOR EVERYTHING. Sort of a weird companion piece to Universal. And if you don't know the song I'm referencing, there is a big gaping hole in your life.
His mother always wanted him to play the piano.
He remembers her saying that she would teach him when he was older. But then Stefan came, and she died, and that never happened.
So, it's not like he took it up right away or anything. Probably around the time Sage showed him the pleasure of women, he figured out there was a way to seduce without compulsion. It involved his hands on ivory. So he learned to play the piano, very well.
He had nothing but time to do it, anyway, and he liked rolling into little towns across America, only to be the mysterious loner taking up spots in night clubs and bars, playing love songs and classical pieces designed to make women clutch at their hearts.
It was all so very easy, part of his repertoire, part of the game.
But then there were the times when he came home to Mystic Falls, and he would just sit on the bench and play for himself. Music in his head that he never wrote down, things that were just as fleeting as all the women who passed between his fangs and slid down over his cock, and who were not Katherine.
Sometimes he imagined playing for her, and he imagined she would love it.
(Right then he should have known what a fantasy world he'd created for himself.)
After Elena becomes a vampire, she watches him with morbid fascination, almost as if she can't take her eyes off of him. This happens before they start fucking like rabbits, but it happens even more after the fact.
He knows what it is, everything heightened, everything so much more. She was attracted to him, had always been attracted to him, but now, whatever that feeling was, it was both insatiable and incomprehensible for her. He also knows she thinks (hopes) each time will be the last time; after he ate her out, or she gave him head, after they fucked on Stefan's bed, or when he found her grabbing bags-to-go and he had her against the freezer, that that time would end it, that would stop the craving that went beyond blood, or whatever the hell she was dealing with.
It was actually pretty sadistic of him to plan it out the way he did. Stefan gone, off with Caroline on Klaus-Tyler business, Elena home alone with him. The piano, sitting there just waiting to be played.
Elena, upstairs, just waiting to be played.
(By sadistic, he means what he's doing to himself. She will get control of it eventually. She will be able to do without him. She will stop it, someday. But until that day comes...
He's going to make her come. Repeatedly. On the piano. In a matter of moments.)
She appears at the edge of the room only a few minutes later, and he just keeps playing. He doesn't acknowledge her or even flick his eyes her direction. He moves his hands over the keys, punctuates each dramatic turn of the music with a pause that makes her almost speak, but when he continues on she remains silent.
He lets it go on for several minutes. He can feel her, he can smell her, and it's not surprising to him at all when she finally comes over to sit down next to him.
What does surprise him is how civilized she is about it. She simply puts a hand on his thigh, runs it up his leg and waits.
(See, she can play him, too. And he'll let her. Always. Forever.)
He draws the final notes out, his fingers traipsing over the high notes, stretching across her just a little, his arm brushing her breasts.
He turns his head slightly, their noses almost touching. He smirks, just a tad, because, well, he's himself, he can't help it. When her hand slides from his leg to his cock, his lips are already opening over hers. He's not sure who moves her, but the jumble of sound beneath her ass makes him suddenly aware of the fact that she dressed for the occasion.
A silky, flimsy nothing covers her body. It practically melts away and he realizes why he could smell her so strongly. No denim between him and her, just frothy lace that moves up her legs with his hands, and she bites at his neck with blunt teeth as his thumb finds her wet heat.
She strangles out a moan as he shoves it inside her and the slick welcoming takes his breath, like it always does. He still remembers the first time, when they'd barely touched or kissed and he was inside her so fast she'd choked on the words, "Holy shit," because he was big, and she hadn't been expecting quite that much.
(He was certain no one could be there after him who would fail to make as large an impression.)
(Not that size matters, of course.)
Funnily enough, it's not the size of his dick or how many fingers he shoves inside her that makes her drip for him. He knows that much, even if he doubts its longevity.
"Damon," she breathes, her eyes opening, her gaze connecting with and then clinging to his, "Da-mon, I need..." and he drags his thumb out to press it with accuracy to her swollen clit. She jerks and sighs, her hands flailing and then catching at his shoulders, the material of his button-down straining between her fingers.
"What, what do you need?" he whispers, and this is it, this is the music he longs for, what he can't recreate when his hands move over the keys.
He shoves two fingers in as he concentrates his thumb in a circular motion over her and then she gasps, "You, I need you," and he's glad she doesn't have him in her palm, because he'd be done in a flash.
She seizes up around him, and her left arm drops down, landing on the high notes again; this time there is only discord, not the beautiful ending to a perfectly executed performance he'd given to get her here.
(He likes this better, truth be told.)
He kneels down and licks the proof of her need from her until she's coming again, leaving evidence all over the piano. There will be centuries to come when he'll sit right here, composing symphonies, Elena still on his tongue, his own hand around his cock at the memory.
As she recovers, her hand combs through his hair. The gentleness, the tenderness nearly undoes any resolve he has not to beg her to promise him that it will never be that, that he will never be here, alone, with just the remembrance of what they were. But then she's pulling him up to her and her mouth is against his and her hands are in his pants, and words become impossible anyway.
(Which is good. He can't go losing his head over this whole thing.)
He fucks her on the piano, her legs strong around him, her arms softer. They have a moment, or, Elena, in her generosity, gives him one, their foreheads together, the sudden need for release not as forthcoming as he would like it to be. He strains against her, needing it, but feeling it just beyond his reach. She says his name, and her fingers dance across the back of his neck and he hears the jumble of notes again, the ones that make no sense, the ones that tell their story.
Then he's there, with her. Melody and harmony, for one brief moment.
Several minutes later he murmurs into her cheek, "'Cause he knows that it's me they've been coming to see to forget about life for a while."
"What?" she asks, pulling her head back.
"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. "Nothing."
Author: badboy_fangirl
Characters/Pairings: Damon POV; Damon/Elena
Word Count: ~1300
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Spoilers: Everything through S3.
Summary: Damon's a player, always has been, always will be.
Author's notes: I blame upupa_epops. FOR EVERYTHING. Sort of a weird companion piece to Universal. And if you don't know the song I'm referencing, there is a big gaping hole in your life.
His mother always wanted him to play the piano.
He remembers her saying that she would teach him when he was older. But then Stefan came, and she died, and that never happened.
So, it's not like he took it up right away or anything. Probably around the time Sage showed him the pleasure of women, he figured out there was a way to seduce without compulsion. It involved his hands on ivory. So he learned to play the piano, very well.
He had nothing but time to do it, anyway, and he liked rolling into little towns across America, only to be the mysterious loner taking up spots in night clubs and bars, playing love songs and classical pieces designed to make women clutch at their hearts.
It was all so very easy, part of his repertoire, part of the game.
But then there were the times when he came home to Mystic Falls, and he would just sit on the bench and play for himself. Music in his head that he never wrote down, things that were just as fleeting as all the women who passed between his fangs and slid down over his cock, and who were not Katherine.
Sometimes he imagined playing for her, and he imagined she would love it.
(Right then he should have known what a fantasy world he'd created for himself.)
After Elena becomes a vampire, she watches him with morbid fascination, almost as if she can't take her eyes off of him. This happens before they start fucking like rabbits, but it happens even more after the fact.
He knows what it is, everything heightened, everything so much more. She was attracted to him, had always been attracted to him, but now, whatever that feeling was, it was both insatiable and incomprehensible for her. He also knows she thinks (hopes) each time will be the last time; after he ate her out, or she gave him head, after they fucked on Stefan's bed, or when he found her grabbing bags-to-go and he had her against the freezer, that that time would end it, that would stop the craving that went beyond blood, or whatever the hell she was dealing with.
It was actually pretty sadistic of him to plan it out the way he did. Stefan gone, off with Caroline on Klaus-Tyler business, Elena home alone with him. The piano, sitting there just waiting to be played.
Elena, upstairs, just waiting to be played.
(By sadistic, he means what he's doing to himself. She will get control of it eventually. She will be able to do without him. She will stop it, someday. But until that day comes...
He's going to make her come. Repeatedly. On the piano. In a matter of moments.)
She appears at the edge of the room only a few minutes later, and he just keeps playing. He doesn't acknowledge her or even flick his eyes her direction. He moves his hands over the keys, punctuates each dramatic turn of the music with a pause that makes her almost speak, but when he continues on she remains silent.
He lets it go on for several minutes. He can feel her, he can smell her, and it's not surprising to him at all when she finally comes over to sit down next to him.
What does surprise him is how civilized she is about it. She simply puts a hand on his thigh, runs it up his leg and waits.
(See, she can play him, too. And he'll let her. Always. Forever.)
He draws the final notes out, his fingers traipsing over the high notes, stretching across her just a little, his arm brushing her breasts.
He turns his head slightly, their noses almost touching. He smirks, just a tad, because, well, he's himself, he can't help it. When her hand slides from his leg to his cock, his lips are already opening over hers. He's not sure who moves her, but the jumble of sound beneath her ass makes him suddenly aware of the fact that she dressed for the occasion.
A silky, flimsy nothing covers her body. It practically melts away and he realizes why he could smell her so strongly. No denim between him and her, just frothy lace that moves up her legs with his hands, and she bites at his neck with blunt teeth as his thumb finds her wet heat.
She strangles out a moan as he shoves it inside her and the slick welcoming takes his breath, like it always does. He still remembers the first time, when they'd barely touched or kissed and he was inside her so fast she'd choked on the words, "Holy shit," because he was big, and she hadn't been expecting quite that much.
(He was certain no one could be there after him who would fail to make as large an impression.)
(Not that size matters, of course.)
Funnily enough, it's not the size of his dick or how many fingers he shoves inside her that makes her drip for him. He knows that much, even if he doubts its longevity.
"Damon," she breathes, her eyes opening, her gaze connecting with and then clinging to his, "Da-mon, I need..." and he drags his thumb out to press it with accuracy to her swollen clit. She jerks and sighs, her hands flailing and then catching at his shoulders, the material of his button-down straining between her fingers.
"What, what do you need?" he whispers, and this is it, this is the music he longs for, what he can't recreate when his hands move over the keys.
He shoves two fingers in as he concentrates his thumb in a circular motion over her and then she gasps, "You, I need you," and he's glad she doesn't have him in her palm, because he'd be done in a flash.
She seizes up around him, and her left arm drops down, landing on the high notes again; this time there is only discord, not the beautiful ending to a perfectly executed performance he'd given to get her here.
(He likes this better, truth be told.)
He kneels down and licks the proof of her need from her until she's coming again, leaving evidence all over the piano. There will be centuries to come when he'll sit right here, composing symphonies, Elena still on his tongue, his own hand around his cock at the memory.
As she recovers, her hand combs through his hair. The gentleness, the tenderness nearly undoes any resolve he has not to beg her to promise him that it will never be that, that he will never be here, alone, with just the remembrance of what they were. But then she's pulling him up to her and her mouth is against his and her hands are in his pants, and words become impossible anyway.
(Which is good. He can't go losing his head over this whole thing.)
He fucks her on the piano, her legs strong around him, her arms softer. They have a moment, or, Elena, in her generosity, gives him one, their foreheads together, the sudden need for release not as forthcoming as he would like it to be. He strains against her, needing it, but feeling it just beyond his reach. She says his name, and her fingers dance across the back of his neck and he hears the jumble of notes again, the ones that make no sense, the ones that tell their story.
Then he's there, with her. Melody and harmony, for one brief moment.
Several minutes later he murmurs into her cheek, "'Cause he knows that it's me they've been coming to see to forget about life for a while."
"What?" she asks, pulling her head back.
"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. "Nothing."