about the rating: strong T? M? maybe? i don't know? correct me if i'm wrong?
notes: I don't usually write things like these, so no judgy. ...Actually, do judge. tell me what I did wrong/right/that deserves a hug from Elena's teddy. I'll love you forever. Written for turtle_goose's prompt over at vd_kink on LiveJournal. Her prompt was: "Elijah/Elena(/Katherine/Tatia) - Elijah dreams while he's in the dagger-induced sleep." and I hope I did it justice.
(also: first ever elejah oneshot, yay. i've wanted to write one ever since reading DJ (flesh and bone telephone's beautiful katherine/elijah piece, so props to her. now go read it. and slap it with a review.)
wrote this at 2am after watching the (slightly disappointing) Hunger Games movie, my emotions are kind of whack rn.
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if the silence takes you
(then i hope it takes me too)
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He's been daggered far too many times to be able to tell the difference between dying and sleeping.
He remembers Klaus, remembers that look in his eyes as he stabs him in the chest—Not in the back, his brother is quick to defend himself. Never your back—remembers Klaus' hand like a reassuring promise on the side of his face, closing his eyes to the sound of him shushing him like a lullaby.
It's the same as just closing his eyes—just that.
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If he looks at it the glass-half-full sort of way, he supposes the preeminent part about dying—sleeping, Klaus reminds him. Can't die when you're already dead—is the endless dreaming, seizing his mind and plaguing his senses, stealing his memories and scattering them to the wind.
He sees a familiar face as he's running through the forest, to the light shining through the trees, to the meadow where the grass seems greener under the bright blue of the sky. He thinks it familiar because it's the face he sees as he'd closed his eyes. Dark hair, olive skin, lips full with the laughter that carries a tune from his childhood.
He sees his fingertips graze the small of her back, sees his hands circle her waist, feels her hair tickling her face as she tries to get away—
and then they're lying in the meadow, her fingers grasping and pulling at the grass and her lips parting in a silent scream, his lips kissing a hot trail down her stomach, his hands pressing at her thighs. Her words are a garble of lower lower lower as his tongue circles her navel and more more more as his fingers trace patterns further up her thighs, but not his name—never his name.
He looks up, plans on telling her exactly what he thinks of this, but the words never make it past his mouth as the face of Tatia swims before him, of wild hair and red cheeks—but then her eyes are framed with lush lashes and her lips bleed like wine, like only the way Katerina's would, and then it's the face of Elena. Doe-eyed and innocent, like a flower in the spring, and now tainted with his filthy hands.
He closes his eyes.
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The dreams, these memories—Or metaphorical acts of suppressed emotional arousal, Klaus would say—he's not sure which is which. He watches them tumble through the wind and flutter to the ground, tries to pick them up and piece them back together but the order's all wrong—the faces not quite matching up to the voices he hears inside his mind.
Tatia whimpers where Katerina never would.
Katerina growls curses where Tatia would sigh, never selfish with her emotions whilst Katerina would never admit to feeling sated.
And Elena just moans his name, over and over and over again, stringing them together like pearls, whispering them against the dew of his skin and making his heart twist the way she arches into him, wraps her legs around him, feels her tighten around him—
as if it's not enough that he'd bend over backwards to please her, as if it's not imminent in the way his hand palms her breasts that he would never let his needs overshadow her own.
Tatia and Katerina would never think twice in letting him ravage their minds and mark their skin—Elena just pushes him back against the pillows, toned legs straddling his waist and long hair tickling his chest, asking and asking (and asking) if there's anything she can do, anything at all.
He closes his eyes.
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Klaus appears from time to time.
He's in the meadow, watching as the dew clings to Elijah's skin and mingles with Tatia's sweat—Or Katerina's, or Elena's, which one is it? Klaus' smile grows, and Elijah feels like suffocating from the acid it's seeping. You can never tell, can you brother? Can you?—and laughing darkly in the shadows of the room as the girl with the misbegotten face lets out a cry as her body shudders and shakes.
Always and forever, Elijah.
Don't you for a second think that I'd let you forget, Klaus says.
Don't you for a second think you could have your moment with them and not have me know, Klaus says.
We're brothers, and brothers don't share, Klaus says.
That's how it is, that's how it will be, for always and for ever, Klaus says.
Always and forever.
He closes his eyes.
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When she looks at him, her hair is straight and sleek, not curling wildly around her cheeks—framing her face and matching her lips; dark and unpredictable—and her eyes large and expressive—not shaded with dark lines, averted as he enters her, defiantly open as he kisses her—setting fire to his thoughts and causing a riot in his chest; thrashing and beating against his ribcage something he'd thought was long gone.
Elena, he gasps against her lips, and her tongue slips past her lips to run against his.
It's Elena, and he pushes his brother out of his mind, drowns him out in the sound of the sound of her heightened breathing and her harsh panting.
It's Elena, and they're in the Salvatore boarding house, the Bennett witch barely another room away, talking of a spell that would finally kill Klaus.
It's Elena, and Damon is in the basement underneath their very feet, hunting up more bloodbags and bound to appear at any second.
It's Elena, and Stefan is probably going to realize that the Original and the doppelganger have been alone longer than necessary.
It's Elena, and he pushes her against the wall, tears away the insolent buttons of her shirt, his fingers skimming the waistband of her panties and her lips hot and wet on his neck. It's Elena, and he crushes her hips to his as she swings her legs around him, fingers pulling at his hair and his name falling from his lips like a song—elijahelijahelijah—like a curse—fuckyestherefuckfuck—like the answer to his wandering hands—right there. Right there. Right there.
He takes pleasure in the fact that he's bruising her thighs with his brash fingers, leaving kisses on her neck long after his lips have moved on, marking her in ways Damon Salvatore never could and Stefan Salvatore would never dare to.
And when she gasps when he enters her, when her nails scrape lines down his back, when her teeth bite at his neck, when her hands grab at his tie, when her lips part ever so slightly, he whispers her name again and again and again against her breasts, and the face he imagines smiling down at him is nobody but hers.
He closes his eyes.
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It's all a blur—Damon and his eyes like the mist that hovers around him, Klaus pressed against his open coffin, vomiting promises and throwing excuses like the sharp slap of Mikael's hand—cold, callous, calculated, altogether analogous to complete and utter bullshit—the cold of the night and how his breath does not (will not) blow great plumes of white around his face—
The gasp of his name on her lips as he pins her to the car, hears her pulse thundering as he nips at her neck with feverish kisses, trails his hand downwards, feels her warmth through her jeans.
He opens his eyes. "I believe we have a little catching up to do."
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