Fic: I Am Going Down (I Am Taking You With Me)
Title: I Am Going Down (I Am Taking You With Me)
Recipient: angelus2hot
Author: lit_chick08
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2372
Warnings: smut, orgasm denial
Summary: They are both so broken and the lines so blurred, everything which shouldn't happen just keeps happening
Author's Notes: written for tvd_holidays using the prompts this wasn't supposed to happen
Alaric realizes his relationship with Elena is not normal on a Sunday morning.
The sun has not even risen yet but he is up and moving. As he hits the bottom of the stairs, he can smell coffee brewing, and Elena is leaning against the counter, her elbows balanced on the edge, back gently sloping, hip cocked; the soft sleep shirt Jenna bought her for Christmas the year hits her mid-thigh, smooth olive skin on display, and Ric cannot help but follow the lines of her body with his eyes. It is not the first time; it is not the fiftieth time. He has convinced himself there is nothing shameful in recognizing that Elena Gilbert is an attractive girl.
She smiles sleepily as he enters the kitchen, stretching up into the cupboard to remove another mug, and he crosses to stand beside her, resting back against the counter's edge. Elena fills both mugs, digging creamer out of the refrigerator; Alaric catches a brief glimpse of purple panty before she is upright again, adding creamer to both cups before handing him his mug. They drink in silence until both mugs are empty; only then does Ric ask, “Do you want me to make breakfast?”
Elena shakes her head. “I'm not hungry.”
They end up on the couch sharing the Sunday paper, Elena stretched out on the couch, her feet kicked up into Ric's lap as they read. It is not until he is flipping through the channels Alaric realizes he is idly stroking the skin over Elena's ankle; he quickly flicks his gaze towards her to make sure he is not making her uncomfortable, but Elena continues reading. He does not know why he does it - curiosity, he supposes - but he starts to let his fingers drift higher with each stroke; by the time his fingers are circling the cap of her knee, Elena's eyes have started to flutter shut, her head tilting back to rest against the arm of the couch, and it stirs something deep in his belly at the level of trust Elena is giving him.
If Jenna was alive, he would never even imagine doing this, but Jenna is dead and Stefan is gone, and they are still here, still standing on shaky feet.
Her outer thigh is warm beneath his fingertips, and Elena shivers as he draws them back and forth across the top of her leg, skirting the bottom of her sleep shirt, not venturing upward; Elena's hands curl around the material, drawing the shirt up, revealing more of her long legs; Alaric's hand follows, still soft and undemanding, deliberately avoiding the temptation of her inner thigh, waiting for Elena to tell him to stop.
The edges of her underwear have just been revealed when the sounds of Jeremy descending the stairs reach him. Immediately Ric pulls away, hopping to his feet to rush upstairs, Elena shimmying her shirt back down over her hips. The younger boy grunts a greeting as Alaric rushes up the stairs, heading straight into the bathroom, turning on the shower as he sheds his clothing.
He takes himself in hand the moment he jerks the curtain closed, the rhythm of his hand fast, his grip tight; there was no tease to this, only the desire to come as quickly as possible so he could begin to wash away the shame clinging to his body. As he braces himself against the tiled wall, hand quickening, Alaric allows his eyes to close, brings the memory of Elena spread out on the couch to mind, imagines how hot and wet the flesh beneath her panties would be to his touch, wondering if he would ever get to find out what Elena Gilbert felt like on the inside.
The rush of the water drowns the cries of his soiled pleasure, the smell of Jenna's soap mingling with the salt of his release, both swirling down the drain.
The night the ghost of Vicki Donovan sets fire to his car, nearly killing Elena, Alaric is tired long before Elena puts a stake in Stefan's stomach. As she presses her car keys into Ric's palm, dropping into the passenger's seat of her car, he wonders if he should say something comforting or encouraging, something profound or parental.
Instead he says, “You smell like smoke.”
Despite the evening's events, Elena smiles, and it makes him feel better, seeing the expression on her face.
He hears her turn the shower on the moment they get home, undoubtedly to wash the scent of smoke from her body; he is about to head downstairs when he hears the crash. Calling her name, Alaric rushes to Elena's room to find Elena standing in a tiny robe near her dresser, the top of which had been swept clean, the contents now spread across her carpet. There are no tears on Elena's face, only frustration and rage, and Alaric wonders just how close to breaking Elena actually is.
“I'll clean this up,” he offers and Elena nods distractedly before going into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door. He wills himself to look away as Elena's robe drops to the floor, and Alaric tries to focus on the task before him, gathering up the spilled jewelry, broken knickknacks, and make-up. He has just finished when the water cuts off and Elena enters her room in nothing but a towel, her long, wet hair dripping down her back.
“Thank you,” Elena murmurs with unfocused eyes, and Alaric isn't sure what he says in response before venturing across the hall to hide away in his room. He shuts the door and makes sure to lock it, not trusting himself with the vulnerable, nearly nude girl down the hall.
It is after midnight when Alaric hears movement downstairs. Heaving himself out of bed, grabbing a vervain grenade just in case, he tiptoes through the darkness to find Elena standing in the muted light of the refrigerator. She is clad only in a pair of bikini underwear and a tank top which is too tight, revealing several inches of flat stomach; her hair hung in wild curls over her shoulders, messy and practically begging to have fingers buried in the tangle.
When she sees him, Elena makes no effort to cover herself, and it is only then Ric sees the nearly empty bottle of whiskey on the counter. A good guardian would chastise her for drinking when she is barely eighteen; a good guardian's first instinct would not be frustration at finding his charge drinking his alcohol.
“Are you drunk?”
She smirks, and there is something in it - mocking and amusement twisted up with desire and Petrova - which makes Alaric harden in his pants. “Not drunk enough.” Wrapping her hand around the neck of the bottle the way he wishes she'd wrap her hand around him, she holds it out to him. “Want to help with that?”
“You're too young,” he starts before trailing off, unsure what argument he is attempting to make.
“So stop me.”
He takes the bottle but only to drink from it, passing it back in resignation. By the time the bottle is dry, he is buzzed and she is loaded, and Alaric tells himself it is the alcohol which makes his clumsy fingers hook into the flimsy strings of her underwear, tugging the scrap of fabric down her legs, leaving her deliciously bare from the waist down.
Elena watches him with large, dark eyes, no hint of refusal in her face; she steps out of her underwear almost daintily, pointing her toes like a dancer, and Alaric slides his hands up the outsides of her legs, following the lines of her body until he is looking her in the eye. He moves to kiss her but Elena turns her head, giving him her cheek instead; when he tries again, she continues to evade, a little snicker escaping her lips, and it reminds him so much of Isobel, he cannot stop himself from grasping her chin tightly and forcing her to look at him.
For the first time, Alaric sees desire flare in her eyes, feels Elena become more pliant in his arms, and it intrigues him, this contrary girl seeming to melt when being told what to do.
Her gaze doesn't waver as her hands find the waistband of his boxers, working them over his hips; he inhales sharply through his nose when her fingers slip around him, hot and soft. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as she begins to teasingly stroke, her thumb swiping circles around the head intermittently, and Ric curses when she suddenly stops.
“Who are you fucking?” she demands, an unfamiliar edge to her voice, and it occurs to Ric for the first time that maybe Elena Gilbert isn't as young as he thinks she is.
“Who are you?” he counters, and he sees anger flare in her eyes only a second before she pushes at his chest with a surprising amount of strength for a drunken teenager.
“Fuck yourself,” she spits before disappearing up the stairs.
Alaric would have thought he dreamt the whole thing if not for the underwear he finds on the kitchen floor the next morning.
Homecoming night Alaric wakes up to Elena's lips sealing around his cock.
At first he is certain he is dreaming; this is a familiar scenario of his x-rated fantasies, and he allows himself to enjoy the sensations, the slow, wet pull of her mouth against him, the lazy swipe of her tongue, the brush of her fingertips against his balls. He grasps a handful of hair, tangles his fingers in the thick textured waves, and moans about how good it is, how good she is. Praise falls past his lips the way it always does in these dreams, declarations of her skill, pleading for more, promising anything she wanted as she kept doing it.
Ric doesn't realize it is a dream until he is on the cusp of orgasm and Elena pulls off, pressing her hands to his hipbones to keep him in place until he has cooled, and then she descends again, taunting and teasing only to stop again and again, wringing more and more expressive curses from his throat.
“Elena,” he pants as she takes him into her throat, her nails scratching patterns into his thighs, and he tries to reach for her, to hold her in place, to make her finish, but Elena raises her head, a mischievous smile on her face, lips swollen and wet.
“Please,” Ric groans as she twists her hand around him, seductively licking the head of his cock with one slow stroke.
“Please what?”
“Please let me come.”
Leisurely tracing his cock with the tip of her tongue, Elena shrugs. “You have hands. I'm not stopping you.”
Fisting the bedding as her mouth slips lower, teasing the thin skin of his sack, he gasps, “I want your mouth, not my hand!”
“Whose mouth?” she taunts, cradling him in her palm, that hungry look shining in her eyes the way it had weeks earlier in the kitchen.
“Elena!” he moans sharply, half-frustration, half-desire.
The moment her name leaves his mouth, Elena seals her lips around him and begins to suck in earnest, scorching heat and sharp pleasure speeding through his blood. It takes less than a minute for every muscle in his body to tense, for his back to arch sharply as his vision blurs. As he returns to himself, Ric realizes he should have warned her, given her the choice to pull away, but Elena says nothing, swallowing and wiping at her mouth with an almost dainty hand.
He jerks her to him suddenly, mauling her mouth with a kiss; he can taste the salt of his release on her tongue, and it occurs to him this is the first time they have ever kissed. His fingers tangle in her hair, keeping her lips sealed to his, but Elena is not fighting to escape; her mouth is more desperate than his, her teeth nipping. It is a violent kiss, practically punishing, and Alaric wonders if she is punishing him or herself.
When he reaches to touch her over her pajama shorts, Elena twists her hips, finally breaking away with a shake of her head.
“I want to make you feel good,” Ric explains, searching her face which has now become shuttered, shadowed.
“No, I don't - I don't need that.”
“But do you want it?”
Elena meets his gaze steadily before minutely shaking her head. “Not tonight.”
The next morning he gets a call from Damon explaining how Stefan is gone, likely never to return to the Stefan Elena loves, and suddenly everything makes more sense.
Alaric has never felt like more of an asshole.
Three weeks later, Ric is getting ready for school, face lifted towards the shower spray, when he feels cold air rush against his back. As he turns, Alaric is startled to see Elena, gloriously nude, tears silently running down her face. Before he can say anything, Elena rests her hands against his hips, burying her face in his chest, and instinctively he encircles her in his arms, shushing her cries rather than asking what the hell she is doing.
“I'm not okay,” Elena finally manages, her lips brushing against the dusting of hair on his chest as she speaks.
He doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing, just holds her tightly until the water runs cold. As Elena's teeth begin to chatter, each of them wrapping towels around their bodies, Alaric confesses, “I'm not okay either.”
It doesn't feel like much to him, but the amount of emotion in Elena's eyes tells him it is enough.
For now.
Recipient: angelus2hot
Author: lit_chick08
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2372
Warnings: smut, orgasm denial
Summary: They are both so broken and the lines so blurred, everything which shouldn't happen just keeps happening
Author's Notes: written for tvd_holidays using the prompts this wasn't supposed to happen
Alaric realizes his relationship with Elena is not normal on a Sunday morning.
The sun has not even risen yet but he is up and moving. As he hits the bottom of the stairs, he can smell coffee brewing, and Elena is leaning against the counter, her elbows balanced on the edge, back gently sloping, hip cocked; the soft sleep shirt Jenna bought her for Christmas the year hits her mid-thigh, smooth olive skin on display, and Ric cannot help but follow the lines of her body with his eyes. It is not the first time; it is not the fiftieth time. He has convinced himself there is nothing shameful in recognizing that Elena Gilbert is an attractive girl.
She smiles sleepily as he enters the kitchen, stretching up into the cupboard to remove another mug, and he crosses to stand beside her, resting back against the counter's edge. Elena fills both mugs, digging creamer out of the refrigerator; Alaric catches a brief glimpse of purple panty before she is upright again, adding creamer to both cups before handing him his mug. They drink in silence until both mugs are empty; only then does Ric ask, “Do you want me to make breakfast?”
Elena shakes her head. “I'm not hungry.”
They end up on the couch sharing the Sunday paper, Elena stretched out on the couch, her feet kicked up into Ric's lap as they read. It is not until he is flipping through the channels Alaric realizes he is idly stroking the skin over Elena's ankle; he quickly flicks his gaze towards her to make sure he is not making her uncomfortable, but Elena continues reading. He does not know why he does it - curiosity, he supposes - but he starts to let his fingers drift higher with each stroke; by the time his fingers are circling the cap of her knee, Elena's eyes have started to flutter shut, her head tilting back to rest against the arm of the couch, and it stirs something deep in his belly at the level of trust Elena is giving him.
If Jenna was alive, he would never even imagine doing this, but Jenna is dead and Stefan is gone, and they are still here, still standing on shaky feet.
Her outer thigh is warm beneath his fingertips, and Elena shivers as he draws them back and forth across the top of her leg, skirting the bottom of her sleep shirt, not venturing upward; Elena's hands curl around the material, drawing the shirt up, revealing more of her long legs; Alaric's hand follows, still soft and undemanding, deliberately avoiding the temptation of her inner thigh, waiting for Elena to tell him to stop.
The edges of her underwear have just been revealed when the sounds of Jeremy descending the stairs reach him. Immediately Ric pulls away, hopping to his feet to rush upstairs, Elena shimmying her shirt back down over her hips. The younger boy grunts a greeting as Alaric rushes up the stairs, heading straight into the bathroom, turning on the shower as he sheds his clothing.
He takes himself in hand the moment he jerks the curtain closed, the rhythm of his hand fast, his grip tight; there was no tease to this, only the desire to come as quickly as possible so he could begin to wash away the shame clinging to his body. As he braces himself against the tiled wall, hand quickening, Alaric allows his eyes to close, brings the memory of Elena spread out on the couch to mind, imagines how hot and wet the flesh beneath her panties would be to his touch, wondering if he would ever get to find out what Elena Gilbert felt like on the inside.
The rush of the water drowns the cries of his soiled pleasure, the smell of Jenna's soap mingling with the salt of his release, both swirling down the drain.
The night the ghost of Vicki Donovan sets fire to his car, nearly killing Elena, Alaric is tired long before Elena puts a stake in Stefan's stomach. As she presses her car keys into Ric's palm, dropping into the passenger's seat of her car, he wonders if he should say something comforting or encouraging, something profound or parental.
Instead he says, “You smell like smoke.”
Despite the evening's events, Elena smiles, and it makes him feel better, seeing the expression on her face.
He hears her turn the shower on the moment they get home, undoubtedly to wash the scent of smoke from her body; he is about to head downstairs when he hears the crash. Calling her name, Alaric rushes to Elena's room to find Elena standing in a tiny robe near her dresser, the top of which had been swept clean, the contents now spread across her carpet. There are no tears on Elena's face, only frustration and rage, and Alaric wonders just how close to breaking Elena actually is.
“I'll clean this up,” he offers and Elena nods distractedly before going into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door. He wills himself to look away as Elena's robe drops to the floor, and Alaric tries to focus on the task before him, gathering up the spilled jewelry, broken knickknacks, and make-up. He has just finished when the water cuts off and Elena enters her room in nothing but a towel, her long, wet hair dripping down her back.
“Thank you,” Elena murmurs with unfocused eyes, and Alaric isn't sure what he says in response before venturing across the hall to hide away in his room. He shuts the door and makes sure to lock it, not trusting himself with the vulnerable, nearly nude girl down the hall.
It is after midnight when Alaric hears movement downstairs. Heaving himself out of bed, grabbing a vervain grenade just in case, he tiptoes through the darkness to find Elena standing in the muted light of the refrigerator. She is clad only in a pair of bikini underwear and a tank top which is too tight, revealing several inches of flat stomach; her hair hung in wild curls over her shoulders, messy and practically begging to have fingers buried in the tangle.
When she sees him, Elena makes no effort to cover herself, and it is only then Ric sees the nearly empty bottle of whiskey on the counter. A good guardian would chastise her for drinking when she is barely eighteen; a good guardian's first instinct would not be frustration at finding his charge drinking his alcohol.
“Are you drunk?”
She smirks, and there is something in it - mocking and amusement twisted up with desire and Petrova - which makes Alaric harden in his pants. “Not drunk enough.” Wrapping her hand around the neck of the bottle the way he wishes she'd wrap her hand around him, she holds it out to him. “Want to help with that?”
“You're too young,” he starts before trailing off, unsure what argument he is attempting to make.
“So stop me.”
He takes the bottle but only to drink from it, passing it back in resignation. By the time the bottle is dry, he is buzzed and she is loaded, and Alaric tells himself it is the alcohol which makes his clumsy fingers hook into the flimsy strings of her underwear, tugging the scrap of fabric down her legs, leaving her deliciously bare from the waist down.
Elena watches him with large, dark eyes, no hint of refusal in her face; she steps out of her underwear almost daintily, pointing her toes like a dancer, and Alaric slides his hands up the outsides of her legs, following the lines of her body until he is looking her in the eye. He moves to kiss her but Elena turns her head, giving him her cheek instead; when he tries again, she continues to evade, a little snicker escaping her lips, and it reminds him so much of Isobel, he cannot stop himself from grasping her chin tightly and forcing her to look at him.
For the first time, Alaric sees desire flare in her eyes, feels Elena become more pliant in his arms, and it intrigues him, this contrary girl seeming to melt when being told what to do.
Her gaze doesn't waver as her hands find the waistband of his boxers, working them over his hips; he inhales sharply through his nose when her fingers slip around him, hot and soft. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as she begins to teasingly stroke, her thumb swiping circles around the head intermittently, and Ric curses when she suddenly stops.
“Who are you fucking?” she demands, an unfamiliar edge to her voice, and it occurs to Ric for the first time that maybe Elena Gilbert isn't as young as he thinks she is.
“Who are you?” he counters, and he sees anger flare in her eyes only a second before she pushes at his chest with a surprising amount of strength for a drunken teenager.
“Fuck yourself,” she spits before disappearing up the stairs.
Alaric would have thought he dreamt the whole thing if not for the underwear he finds on the kitchen floor the next morning.
Homecoming night Alaric wakes up to Elena's lips sealing around his cock.
At first he is certain he is dreaming; this is a familiar scenario of his x-rated fantasies, and he allows himself to enjoy the sensations, the slow, wet pull of her mouth against him, the lazy swipe of her tongue, the brush of her fingertips against his balls. He grasps a handful of hair, tangles his fingers in the thick textured waves, and moans about how good it is, how good she is. Praise falls past his lips the way it always does in these dreams, declarations of her skill, pleading for more, promising anything she wanted as she kept doing it.
Ric doesn't realize it is a dream until he is on the cusp of orgasm and Elena pulls off, pressing her hands to his hipbones to keep him in place until he has cooled, and then she descends again, taunting and teasing only to stop again and again, wringing more and more expressive curses from his throat.
“Elena,” he pants as she takes him into her throat, her nails scratching patterns into his thighs, and he tries to reach for her, to hold her in place, to make her finish, but Elena raises her head, a mischievous smile on her face, lips swollen and wet.
“Please,” Ric groans as she twists her hand around him, seductively licking the head of his cock with one slow stroke.
“Please what?”
“Please let me come.”
Leisurely tracing his cock with the tip of her tongue, Elena shrugs. “You have hands. I'm not stopping you.”
Fisting the bedding as her mouth slips lower, teasing the thin skin of his sack, he gasps, “I want your mouth, not my hand!”
“Whose mouth?” she taunts, cradling him in her palm, that hungry look shining in her eyes the way it had weeks earlier in the kitchen.
“Elena!” he moans sharply, half-frustration, half-desire.
The moment her name leaves his mouth, Elena seals her lips around him and begins to suck in earnest, scorching heat and sharp pleasure speeding through his blood. It takes less than a minute for every muscle in his body to tense, for his back to arch sharply as his vision blurs. As he returns to himself, Ric realizes he should have warned her, given her the choice to pull away, but Elena says nothing, swallowing and wiping at her mouth with an almost dainty hand.
He jerks her to him suddenly, mauling her mouth with a kiss; he can taste the salt of his release on her tongue, and it occurs to him this is the first time they have ever kissed. His fingers tangle in her hair, keeping her lips sealed to his, but Elena is not fighting to escape; her mouth is more desperate than his, her teeth nipping. It is a violent kiss, practically punishing, and Alaric wonders if she is punishing him or herself.
When he reaches to touch her over her pajama shorts, Elena twists her hips, finally breaking away with a shake of her head.
“I want to make you feel good,” Ric explains, searching her face which has now become shuttered, shadowed.
“No, I don't - I don't need that.”
“But do you want it?”
Elena meets his gaze steadily before minutely shaking her head. “Not tonight.”
The next morning he gets a call from Damon explaining how Stefan is gone, likely never to return to the Stefan Elena loves, and suddenly everything makes more sense.
Alaric has never felt like more of an asshole.
Three weeks later, Ric is getting ready for school, face lifted towards the shower spray, when he feels cold air rush against his back. As he turns, Alaric is startled to see Elena, gloriously nude, tears silently running down her face. Before he can say anything, Elena rests her hands against his hips, burying her face in his chest, and instinctively he encircles her in his arms, shushing her cries rather than asking what the hell she is doing.
“I'm not okay,” Elena finally manages, her lips brushing against the dusting of hair on his chest as she speaks.
He doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing, just holds her tightly until the water runs cold. As Elena's teeth begin to chatter, each of them wrapping towels around their bodies, Alaric confesses, “I'm not okay either.”
It doesn't feel like much to him, but the amount of emotion in Elena's eyes tells him it is enough.
For now.