[fic] need you now
Title: need you now
Author: badboy_fangirl
Characters/Pairings: Damon POV; Damon/Elena
Word Count: ~1200
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 / Sire bond sexy_tiems via the phone.
Spoilers: Everything through 4x10ish.
Summary: From the prompt: Damon/Elena, one-sided guilt-ridden phone sex for Elena's solo benefit while he's at the lakehouse.
Author's notes: Written for upupa_epops's Valentine's Day fic-a-thon. That I totally don't have time for. This is why I haven't responded to comments for days! I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!
Add'l A/N: This didn't go exactly as planned, but really, when do things ever go as planned with D/E? Title lifted from the Lady Antebellum song of the same name, though I prefer the Mark Salling/Lea Michele version.
It starts with one voice mail. Most of the messages she's left for him promised that the sire bond had nothing to do with her feelings for him, or something about how much she missed him--usually both to some extent. But on the third day, the message was a little racier than that.
And she sounded just a tiny bit drunk.
He guessed it took a little liquid courage as Elena's verbal cues didn't tend to be as erotic as her body language. She could throw him down on the bed, slither down his body like a cobra, swallow his cock down fast enough to make his head spin and turn his stamina into a late-night talk show joke, but there was nothing like her husky voice coming from inside his phone.
When you were inside me, I thought I'd go crazy.
(Damon thought the same thing. In fact, he did go a little crazy, but she seemed to like that.)
So, after he makes sure Matt and Jeremy are tucked in for the night, he pulls out his phone and listens to it a few dozen times.
When you were inside me, I thought I'd go crazy. Call me, Damon, I need you.
He does the only sensible thing for someone in love with a girl who is bound to him by a supernatural link to please--he jacks off alone when listening to her message makes him hard enough to chisel stone. Once he's taken the edge off, he finds his own bottle of liquid courage, and somewhere between the fifth swallow and the empty bottle, he's dialed her number.
"Damon?" she mumbles, and he realizes it's late. Very late. She'd been dead asleep and he just drunk dialed her. He's drunk enough not to hang up, but not drunk enough not to know this is a totally douchey, bad idea.
(Stefan would judge him so hard.)
"Is everything okay?" she asks, and he can hear the concern in her tone. It stretches across the miles like a gossamer thread, fine but binding.
"Everything's fine," he says, his voice subdued. It's not like he thinks Jeremy or Matt can hear him, they ate three pizzas and are in food comas upstairs now; but he can't help how it just feels like he should be quiet. "I got your message," he says, in the same low voice, but there's an edge now.
The edge. The one that when he goes off it, he'll be bound for hell, no doubt.
She says, "Oh," in an equally muted tone. "Right. I was just..."
"Horny?" he supplies when she fails to finish. (He fails to end that word with a smirk, though he tries very hard.)
A soft chuckle. "I wish that's all it was. No, it's deeper, more intense?" she says, almost like a question. "Maybe it's just vampire heightened emotions, or maybe it's because I've....never, you know, been with someone before that made me feel so..." She trails off again and Damon can't take it. He doesn't want to hear logical explanations for this. He just wants to get her off, and make her feel the way she did a few nights earlier when neither of them had a clue.
It won't be as bad as actually having sex with her under these circumstances. In fact, this should be way less guilt-inducing than that, which is why he sent her away in the first place, to make sure that wouldn't happen.
"Take your panties off," he blurts, and it's not until the words leave his lips that he wants to snatch them back. That's too bossy, too much like count bricks until I show up, so he tacks, "Please," on to the end of it like that will make a difference.
It doesn't, of course, because he can just hear her sharp intake of breath and then the immediate sound of her reaching down and pulling off whatever she was wearing. "What color are they?" he asks. He never had an underwear fetish until Elena, honestly.
"Purple lace," she says breathlessly, and there isn't enough alcohol in the state of Virginia to keep him from getting hard again. "I took my top off, too," she offers. "I'm naked, Damon," she whispers. "I'm naked and I miss you. Tell me what to do."
He closes his eyes and remembers how soft and wet she was under his fingers, under his tongue. He could tell her just how to stroke herself and she could be coming in a matter of moments, panting in his ear until he'll want to rip his dick off rather than be here alone without her, but instead he says, "Why don't you tell me what you want me to do?"
He would hope for half a second that that was vague enough to not be in anyway direct, but he doesn't really have time to think about it because Elena starts talking immediately. She tells him how she wants him to run his fingers over her, teasing her clit and then spreading her to slide his middle finger inside her. She tells him to curve his finger into her, like he's beckoning her towards him, to do that for several strokes before leaning down to kiss and suck at her clitoris with his lips. She moans his name in the middle of that, and he can hear the sound of her fingers gliding over the wet sweetness her own words have created. She commands him to bite down, gently, and then flick his tongue rapidly, and then she's gushing over his chin, her chest heaving, her fingers embedded in his hair.
"Oh, god," she groans. "So good, so good..." and then she gives a little shriek as an aftershock ricochets through her. "You make me so hot," she adds, and if Damon could even formulate words in his head, much less speak them aloud, he would say, Right back atcha, babe.
(It's too real; he can practically smell her, it's so vivid.)
She breathes heavily for a moment or two longer, and then says, "Take your cock in your hand."
(He doesn't have to be told twice. His pants are still hanging open from his pre-phone call recreational activities.)
It's like he didn't just rub one out an hour before. In fact, it's like he hasn't had sex in 50 years, because all she says is, "If I were there, I would lean down and my hair would fall over your thighs. And then I would open my mouth and tease the head with just the tip of my tongue, licking all that pre-cum away, and then I would suck you in, just the end, just delicately, and--" but Damon explodes, and he shouts her name, rolling on to his side to spill himself against the bedspread. "And I would swallow you down, and lick my lips clean," she says smugly.
Damon mutters fuck me against the pillow, wondering how this is even possible. The one night he spent with Elena somehow pales in comparison to this moment, and he has the vaguely panicked discovery gobsmack him: it will only get better and better with Elena.
(If he lets it.)
They say goodnight a few minutes later, and Damon clutches his phone in his hand. It's quite possible he's totally and utterly never coming back from this.
Author: badboy_fangirl
Characters/Pairings: Damon POV; Damon/Elena
Word Count: ~1200
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 / Sire bond sexy_tiems via the phone.
Spoilers: Everything through 4x10ish.
Summary: From the prompt: Damon/Elena, one-sided guilt-ridden phone sex for Elena's solo benefit while he's at the lakehouse.
Author's notes: Written for upupa_epops's Valentine's Day fic-a-thon. That I totally don't have time for. This is why I haven't responded to comments for days! I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!
Add'l A/N: This didn't go exactly as planned, but really, when do things ever go as planned with D/E? Title lifted from the Lady Antebellum song of the same name, though I prefer the Mark Salling/Lea Michele version.
It starts with one voice mail. Most of the messages she's left for him promised that the sire bond had nothing to do with her feelings for him, or something about how much she missed him--usually both to some extent. But on the third day, the message was a little racier than that.
And she sounded just a tiny bit drunk.
He guessed it took a little liquid courage as Elena's verbal cues didn't tend to be as erotic as her body language. She could throw him down on the bed, slither down his body like a cobra, swallow his cock down fast enough to make his head spin and turn his stamina into a late-night talk show joke, but there was nothing like her husky voice coming from inside his phone.
When you were inside me, I thought I'd go crazy.
(Damon thought the same thing. In fact, he did go a little crazy, but she seemed to like that.)
So, after he makes sure Matt and Jeremy are tucked in for the night, he pulls out his phone and listens to it a few dozen times.
When you were inside me, I thought I'd go crazy. Call me, Damon, I need you.
He does the only sensible thing for someone in love with a girl who is bound to him by a supernatural link to please--he jacks off alone when listening to her message makes him hard enough to chisel stone. Once he's taken the edge off, he finds his own bottle of liquid courage, and somewhere between the fifth swallow and the empty bottle, he's dialed her number.
"Damon?" she mumbles, and he realizes it's late. Very late. She'd been dead asleep and he just drunk dialed her. He's drunk enough not to hang up, but not drunk enough not to know this is a totally douchey, bad idea.
(Stefan would judge him so hard.)
"Is everything okay?" she asks, and he can hear the concern in her tone. It stretches across the miles like a gossamer thread, fine but binding.
"Everything's fine," he says, his voice subdued. It's not like he thinks Jeremy or Matt can hear him, they ate three pizzas and are in food comas upstairs now; but he can't help how it just feels like he should be quiet. "I got your message," he says, in the same low voice, but there's an edge now.
The edge. The one that when he goes off it, he'll be bound for hell, no doubt.
She says, "Oh," in an equally muted tone. "Right. I was just..."
"Horny?" he supplies when she fails to finish. (He fails to end that word with a smirk, though he tries very hard.)
A soft chuckle. "I wish that's all it was. No, it's deeper, more intense?" she says, almost like a question. "Maybe it's just vampire heightened emotions, or maybe it's because I've....never, you know, been with someone before that made me feel so..." She trails off again and Damon can't take it. He doesn't want to hear logical explanations for this. He just wants to get her off, and make her feel the way she did a few nights earlier when neither of them had a clue.
It won't be as bad as actually having sex with her under these circumstances. In fact, this should be way less guilt-inducing than that, which is why he sent her away in the first place, to make sure that wouldn't happen.
"Take your panties off," he blurts, and it's not until the words leave his lips that he wants to snatch them back. That's too bossy, too much like count bricks until I show up, so he tacks, "Please," on to the end of it like that will make a difference.
It doesn't, of course, because he can just hear her sharp intake of breath and then the immediate sound of her reaching down and pulling off whatever she was wearing. "What color are they?" he asks. He never had an underwear fetish until Elena, honestly.
"Purple lace," she says breathlessly, and there isn't enough alcohol in the state of Virginia to keep him from getting hard again. "I took my top off, too," she offers. "I'm naked, Damon," she whispers. "I'm naked and I miss you. Tell me what to do."
He closes his eyes and remembers how soft and wet she was under his fingers, under his tongue. He could tell her just how to stroke herself and she could be coming in a matter of moments, panting in his ear until he'll want to rip his dick off rather than be here alone without her, but instead he says, "Why don't you tell me what you want me to do?"
He would hope for half a second that that was vague enough to not be in anyway direct, but he doesn't really have time to think about it because Elena starts talking immediately. She tells him how she wants him to run his fingers over her, teasing her clit and then spreading her to slide his middle finger inside her. She tells him to curve his finger into her, like he's beckoning her towards him, to do that for several strokes before leaning down to kiss and suck at her clitoris with his lips. She moans his name in the middle of that, and he can hear the sound of her fingers gliding over the wet sweetness her own words have created. She commands him to bite down, gently, and then flick his tongue rapidly, and then she's gushing over his chin, her chest heaving, her fingers embedded in his hair.
"Oh, god," she groans. "So good, so good..." and then she gives a little shriek as an aftershock ricochets through her. "You make me so hot," she adds, and if Damon could even formulate words in his head, much less speak them aloud, he would say, Right back atcha, babe.
(It's too real; he can practically smell her, it's so vivid.)
She breathes heavily for a moment or two longer, and then says, "Take your cock in your hand."
(He doesn't have to be told twice. His pants are still hanging open from his pre-phone call recreational activities.)
It's like he didn't just rub one out an hour before. In fact, it's like he hasn't had sex in 50 years, because all she says is, "If I were there, I would lean down and my hair would fall over your thighs. And then I would open my mouth and tease the head with just the tip of my tongue, licking all that pre-cum away, and then I would suck you in, just the end, just delicately, and--" but Damon explodes, and he shouts her name, rolling on to his side to spill himself against the bedspread. "And I would swallow you down, and lick my lips clean," she says smugly.
Damon mutters fuck me against the pillow, wondering how this is even possible. The one night he spent with Elena somehow pales in comparison to this moment, and he has the vaguely panicked discovery gobsmack him: it will only get better and better with Elena.
(If he lets it.)
They say goodnight a few minutes later, and Damon clutches his phone in his hand. It's quite possible he's totally and utterly never coming back from this.