Note: it went like this, I wanted to write a prompt for thebennettdiaries / irishcookie (she's brilliant, you should go read her) instead this happened. I have never trying writing about Elijah and I wanted to try, but Damon never let it alone with I try to pair up Bonnie wih someone else, so... well. It is supposed to be a 2 parts, bonlijah UST, damon friendship/pre-romance/UST, but since I'm on the fence still, I'll be waiting to hear your opinion about the evolution of this story.
Again, if you can/want, leave me a ko-fi (link in the profile). If you read leave me a review. It will make for good company during this quarantine.
#
There is a thrill that comes from hunting down the object of their desire, in knowing he's the only one that can complete the job, find what they most crave and dangle it in front of their eyes with the taunting smile that will make them think about his inexplicable persona.
When people look at him, he can read in their gaze the same question, over and over. The light in their eyes changes. Their new, agonized possession is overshadowed by the man standing in front of them, looking at their reward with little more than bored disinterest. His impeccable suit and the elegant interior of his apartment, sprinkled with little rarities and antique rugs gives away the successful career he occasionally indulges in, when he feels like the hunt is worth his time.
Elijah Mikaelson radiates power and mystery.
He feeds off the peculiar attraction people seem to be affected by, enjoys refusing them a simple conversation, about how did you do it? How could you find it? No one else could. Some of his clients he takes to bed, yes, but he offers no more than platitudes, a few compliments and always a private driver so that they'll arrive safely home.
He leans against the backrest of his antique carved throne chair, his eyes drawn to the light of the streetlamps outside. He can see the open window of an apartment in a building not far from his, though it's November and the air is cold. He himself cannot stand the cold.
"I've always wanted it," the woman says, trying to admire Portrait of a Courtesan though her eyes keep going to his face. What she wants now, what she'll always want from now on is him, and that's the only thing he can't give. Because he doesn't possess it.
Elijah can feel her eyes on his profile as he observes the open window. "They said it had been destroyed," she adds, trying to engage him.
"It's a good thing it wasn't," he observes composedly, turning to look at her. He is aware of her new craving, and he is not one to shy away from it. "That would have made it impossible for me to give you what you want. And nothing is impossible for me." Quite the dramatic declaration, he knows, but there is no man without a history, and if he can't be a man, he'd rather be a legend.
She's beautiful, and rich. The kind of woman used to have anything she desires. The kind of woman he enjoys having on her knees. After all, the magnificent Portuguese embossed leather armchair is sturdy enough to take both their weights, but he would not guarantee it for the strain of a vigorous sexual encounter, so he sinks his fingers into her artfully curled blonde hair and lets himself be engulfed by the warmth of her mouth.
She works him attentively, head dutifully bobbing up and down on his engorged length, his eyes fall closed for a moment enjoying her dedication. When he opens them again the window is closed.
#
She's wrapped in a plaid, reading a book while wearing her favorite pink wool socks when she hears it. A distinct cawing and then the slapping of wings. The crow paints a dark, menacing shadow on the wall as it flies in front of her table lamp.
"I'm reading," she reproaches him for his loud call, turning a page without bothering to greet him. Damon is unfazed by her mood and just walks over to her, leaning with both his arms over the back of her sofa, head lowering right next to her to see what she's reading. It's the first translation of Manuscrit trouvè a Saragosse. He lent it to her a week back, among other things, so that she could entertain herself.
"You're liking it, aren't you?" he asks without getting a reply. Her twisting mouth at the thought of admitting he was right is answer enough, and he presses a kiss on the top of her head after a triumphant, "I knew it!" before walking around the sofa to sit at her feet with a flop.
His hand absently slides under her plaid, fingers wrapping about one tiny foot as he inquires, "Did he do anything strange?"
"Define strange," she replies, looking over her book before closing it on her lap. Actually, she can recount different shades of strange, bordering on fixated and bursting through the wall of depraved, but she's not going to tell Damon that.
One of his eyebrows goes up, because he knows there's something she's hiding. "I never liked this plan, I told you already—"
"I know, I know," she says rolling her eyes at his impatience.
"—I'm more for a direct approach. Ask question, kill if you don't like the answer," he piques candidly, "And why are your feet so cold?" He grimaces, fingers gripping her foot to rub some warmth into it. "I won't go broke if you turn up the heat."
"What's another dead person, after all?" she asks, sarcastically. "Geez, I wonder why you seem to have no friends. And the temperature of this place is perfectly fine, thank you very much." Bonnie sighs, trying not to be moved by his thoughtfulness. She's the one that wanted to play the long game, to make sure Elijah had really started over, with a human life and no memory nor bad intentions, and Damon has paid for the apartment's rent and every other expense involved into carrying out her plan. She's trying to take advantage of his wallet as little as possible.
"I have you, don't I?" he asks. And for a moment there's something in the air. Something hot that burns the first layer of skin to leave the raw flesh exposed.
She ignores the question and Damon pulls his lips into a tight smile, going back to the main subject.
"Did he make any contact with you?"
"We crossed each other once…" she says, "exchanged pleasantries."
"And?" Damon presses, unconvinced. Bonnie hates that he can do that, that he just knows. She hates it and she doesn't.
"He looks…human. Normal." As normal as a man like him can be. He's imposing in his size, handsome in his features, all an alluring mannerism and sophisticated style. "And he watches my window often." Usually when he's fucking someone, she wants to say but she doesn't. She doesn't want to tell him something and get a reaction that she won't like in any case, whatever it might be. And moreover, it feels like something private between her and Elijah.
Bonnie has been in Charleston – on and off – for two months now, observing his activities, the company he keeps, the things he likes. There is no blood involved, no dirty deeds, for the most part. She's always on the outside, looking in, but during his intimate encounters.
When Elijah has sex with a woman, he always looks towards her, pulling her in the room with him. Small temptation she finds herself not wanting to resist.
"He always had voyeuristic tendencies…The creep," Damon comments, eyes fixating on her, studying her like he's watching though Elijah's eyes. She can't help but wonder what he sees. It makes her cheeks burn a little, and she pulls her foot away from his hand.
"You're one to talk," she snorts, "You lost your moral code at fifteen."
"You've gotten them mixed up," he corrects her. "What I lost at fifteen was my virginity."
"That was totally unnecessary information," she grimaces.
"Yeah, but how are we gonna bond if we don't talk, Bon?" He likes to make fun of her embarrassment. "I just want us to be closer," he declares mockingly; and yet, on his tongue there's the bitter taste of truth, and no trace of Elena's name.
"You're right," she nods, and he knows that it's a trick. For starters, she's just said he's right, and that's a bad, bad sign.
"The first time Jeremy and I had sex we—"
"Oh, that's nasty," he grimaces, disgusted, standing from the couch in a rush. "I feel dirty, now."
Bonnie shakes her head, giggling. Her eyes fall on the window.
#
A few times he saw a man with her, black haired, black dressed, a bit dramatic in his gestures on occasion. The man doesn't stay over for the night and Elijah always wonders if he will, next time.
He's met Bonnie, once, someone had bumped into her making her grocery bag fall to the ground and he had picked up a jar of conditioner that had rolled at his feet. It was supposed to smell like coconut and fig. The need to know what her hair smelled like induced him to order the product online, and now it sits on his cabinet in the spacious bathroom.
He had walked up to her, handed her the jar and she had thanked him, looking at him straight in the eyes. He's not vain, or particularly self-centered – at least he supposes he's not – but he does know he looks good, and he knows very well the effect he has on people. That what are you question always burning in their gaze after a few moments. Elijah is a mystery, even and above all, to himself.
She hadn't looked at him like that. She had looked at him like she knew better. Her mouth curved politely, but her eyes were taunting. She had turned her back on him after a curt Thank you and he had found himself hooked on her civil indifference, on a sort of amused awareness that came from her in waves.
"You're new in the neighborhood," he'd said. A very unoriginal approach, he knew, but if he had a great deal of experience in picking women he could not know. He knew nothing much more than the numbers of his bank account, quite a lot of art history, the info on his ID and that he had no family.
It hadn't felt a burden to be in the dark about his past, it had felt like a clean slate, like a new adventure; and adventures he had every night. Every night with a different woman and a different fantasy.
Until Bonnie Bennett had appeared and she had become the only fantasy.
Now, standing behind the venetian blinds of his study he tries to learn the way she moves, how her worn out t-shirt falls over her naked shoulder, the curve of her breast under the thin fabric, the glowy color of her thighs as she sits on the windowsill, head tilted in the direction of his building and eyes pointing at the moon. It is her little ritual every night.
After a few minutes she comes back down, stretches her tight body, shirt riding up her stomach for a couple of inches and walks away. Tonight, the display of her cellphone lights up and she leans against the jamb, eyes traveling up his building to his window.
Elijah can see her eyes in his mind, branded with fire like an animal.
He leans with his forearm against the wall, his free hand pulls himself out form the confines of his elegant trousers. His stroke is firm, slow and deliberate, the way he'd be with her. He's hard already, dreaming of caramel thighs to spread open with his bulk, velvety lips and warm channel to fill to the hilt and he breathes in the coconut scent of her hair.
The buildup is rapid, for she had been in the back of his minds for hours and hours. For weeks, rather. It feels voracious, the need to come, the need to see her - they're one and the same. Bonnie is like a tickle that creeps up from every vein in his body and he's desperate for it to stop, for it to go on forever. The reaction of his own body is so powerful it feels like something new.
Elijah grunts, sinking into the fantasy of her, watching her lick her lips as she let the hand holding the phone lower at her side.
In front of her, her who's looking up leaving him wondering if she knows what he'd doing, he's in complete control, and yet completely helpless. His fist travels up and down his engorged member with none of the finesse he usually sports at any given time, like he'd discovered the depth of his carnal hunger only after he saw her. Beautiful, powerful, meant to be a master to satisfy or his slave to submit, but always scraping the mannered surface of his perfectly ironed suits to find the violence thrashing underneath.
Elijah hits the wall with a fist when he comes, satisfied and yet not at all.
Her window is closed.
#
He walks to the cab, the soles of his Italian shoes click against the concrete as he approaches the sidewalk. Before he can pull open the door of the taxi, she's already stepping out of it and he remembers too late that he likes to be a gentleman; so, when she stands in front of him he just remains there, dazed. Looking at her like she just popped out of a cake, a gift from an affectionate friend that knows exactly what he likes.
Her lips stretch into a little smile, for she is aware of how close he is, of how stunned he looks by her presence and she's amused rather than uncomfortable.
"Man, do you need a ride?" the driver calls from the inside of the car.
"Yes, I do," he murmurs, hoarse and a bit hungry, as his eyes fall on Bonnie's lips and she feels her heart jump in her throat. Suddenly it is not so amusing anymore, for his aftershave is making her dizzy, and the warmth of his human, solid, heavy body has weakened her knees, and yes maybe a ride would be good.
Her sex responds to his words like he's just touched her, and how can it not, when she knows exactly the way he looks when he's aroused, when she knows by heart the way his handsome face contorts when someone is pleasuring him, when she knows how he moves, and grabs and thrusts hard into a willing body.
Her nipples feel sensitive as his eyes linger on her lips and she has to slip away from him. Bonnie takes a step to the side, tries walking around him as he stands solid as a column but he turns rapidly, fingers wrapping around her slim wrist and she hopes that she's not wrong about him, that he is really human and can't feel the furious drumming of her heartbeat under his hold.
"Sorry, I…" he begins, sharply aware of his faux pas. He's not as formal and affected as his vampire self, but his easy smile doesn't make him any less tantalizing. Maybe the opposite. "Forgive me, Miss Bennett," he says, "that was…crass of me."
Bonnie nods though he's still holding her wrist, the driver becomes impatient, "So what do you want to do?" he calls, and Elijah turns around, letting her slip away for one moment.
He mutters something to the man that she can't hear because she's walking away quickly – running, that's her specialty lately, so scared as she is by the electrified complicity that screams between her and Damon – and when she reaches the front door of her building, relief is very brief, because she can see Elijah's reflection on the glass and he covers her hand with his own, stopping her from pulling the door open.
"Please, wait," he begs, before remembering that's not his role. He doesn't beg, never. But maybe, he thinks, smelling her hair and watching her turn around, maybe he could make an exception for her.
Bonnie holds her chin high, looks into his eyes like an equal, not wondering what he is or what he wants because both are very clear to her. In the back of his mind a voice asks if she knows, if she's aware of the filthy things she makes him do, of how he spies on her when he's alone, of how he looks for her when he's not.
"That's not my style," he says, voice low as he tries not to lean in to linger on her lips. "I wasn't trying to make you feel uncomfortable." They are close, again, like one moment ago. She's beautiful, again, like every time he lays eyes one her. She's an idea he can't banish, and a woman he can't hold. It's an impasse.
"I wasn't thinking about…" he starts again when she stays silent, observing him like he's failing an exam. He doesn't like to fail. He doubts he ever did.
"Having sex with me?" she finishes, boldly. Her life is frustrating, difficult, always circumnavigating the things she cannot allow herself to have, pretending to not see the gazes, the touches, the way Damon cares for her, the way Elijah searches for her. "That would be the first time," rendering him speechless for a long beat. She shouldn't have spoken like that, she knows, but she doesn't like the idea of him denying that he wants her. She is flattered. She is proud of it.
"I mean, I don't think there's a man that doesn't wonder about how any woman would be in bed," she explains, trying to regain control of this conversation. Being with Damon made her grow an ego, it seems, and it complicates matters greatly on occasion.
"Are you any woman?" he ponders, head titling to the side as he studies her, like this theory doesn't add up.
She doesn't reply, just looks away from him, smiling politely like they haven't been discussing his attraction towards her just one second ago. "I should go, Mr. Mikaelson," she replies before looking at him again, "I need to make a few phone calls," she adds turning around, pushing the glass door open.
Bonnie steps inside, lets the heavy door go, but he presses a palm against it before it can close again. "I do," he says, making her turn on the first marble step of the clean foyer.
She's wearing a pleated miniskirt in pied de poule and a turtleneck sweater, looking so young and yet provocative. There are about twelve years between them and he should know better than to look in her direction but he must at least tell her this, because he prides himself of being honest with himself. "I do think about having sex with you. Not any woman, Miss Bennett. Just you." He explains like he's giving her direction to the historic center. "Have a good day. I hope I didn't waste too much of your time," he adds, taking a step back to let the door close.
Yet, he doesn't move an inch as he watches her from the other side of the glass.
#
Damon's phone vibrates and he ignores it as they play cards, sitting on the floor around her coffee table. They are playing for coins, of the chocolate kind.
"I still think strip poker would have been more motivating," he says, holding the lollipop with one hand before taking it in his mouth again. He smirks around the candy as she gives him a dirty look.
"Motivating for who?" she asks, pretending to be too busy to study her cards, "Not everyone wants to see you naked."
"Who says I was going to be the one that had to strip down?" He smirks playfully, making her smile. It's just a moment, a switch turned, then turned again.
They've had this kind of back and forth, in different variants, since they were stuck on the other side. It used to be safe territory because she loathed him and he was just flexing his muscle, because he had an image to defend or something like that. Then she became the one to defend him, against their enemies, against his own monsters; so sometimes, when he's being silly and playful and brazen, it's doesn't feel so safe anymore.
"You're going to lose, Damon. Face it, your poker face sucks," she accuses, trying to move on from the deadlock they've stumbled upon. But he looks at her like it's something they both know, that his poker face sucks. He wants just a little more of her, and then more and more. It's something they are actively trying to avoid – well, Bonnie is surely trying – but he doesn't know how long they can drag it out.
"I don't need a poker face with the cards I have," he rebuts.
"Plus, you cheat."
He grins at that.
Damon is too territorial to remember long enough that he's supposed to follow the rules. He just does what he likes, and he likes Bonnie. Casual sex leaves him unsatisfied. Her absence in his house leaves him restless. The concept of taking her in small doses and proceeding with caution and all that jazz is foreign to him. He just knows how to be devoted to a fault, and whenever the switch turns and she's a woman, other than just his best friend, it surprises him. It surprises him every time.
"I'll throw you a lifeline," she decides suddenly. "What about Chinese?" She abandons her covered cards on the coffee table to stand and go find the takeaway menu of his favorite restaurant.
"Don't bother," he replies, leaning back against the couch, elbows propped on the cushions.
Bonnie comes back with the menu in her hands and a puzzled expression on her face. "You don't want to stay for dinner?" she asks. This is what she feared, the distance she can't manage. It's too much, sometimes, and too little, some other, and there's Elena asleep somewhere. And Damon that never mentions her. And it seems to belong to another life, to a vague dream she can't remember, because all she recognizes is the smell Damon leaves on her things when he treats them like his own (they mostly are), and the way he gets angry when she goes back to her self-sacrificing self. And how his mouth lingers just a little too long when he kisses her forehead as he says goodnight.
It makes her panic, not knowing what she's going to lose, what she's going to gain. That's why she can't play at this game. Her heart is not made of chocolate.
"I already called them while I was coming over," he explains with a shrug as the doorbell rings. "Dumplings, steamed vermicelli rolls, yangchou fried rice and fried milk."
"My favorite!" she beams, turning to go open the door. The delivery man says the bill has already taken care of in advance, so she tips him and goes back inside with the bags of food. Damon has his head turned in the direction of Elijah's window. She can barely catch a shadow in passing.
"Is he still watching you?" he asks, as she takes the food containers from the bag to spread them on the table.
"The Crow should be on tv. You love that movie," she promptly says, ignoring his question and reaching for the remote.
He takes his portion of food, rips the paper around the chopstick with his teeth as she sits beside him. "What disaster are you trying to prevent by staying here?" he asks, fixing his eyes on the tv screen.
"Just making sure he's out of the picture for good," Bonnie answers, rushing to add, "Not in a permanent, dead and buried way!" when he opens his mouth to throw in his two cents.
His two cents are terribly predictable.
She smirks at his attitude, at the easy rhythm of their banter, at the way his blue eyes warm when she reads his mind like that, and the air around is charged all of a sudden. The natural progression of this is a kiss, she thinks, a kiss and cold food and Damon getting to know how comfortable and large her bed is.
Her heart goes pit-patting, and she turns her face away trying not to breathe too deeply for fear the scent of his will burn a few brain cells.
"Mystic Falls is getting boring without you," he says, raising a dumpling to his mouth.
"I think I'm coming back soon, anyway," she replies, managing to make her own fall between her chopsticks twice. Damon chuckles at her ineptitude and puts an arm around her to guide her hand.
"See?" He asks, trapping the dumpling between the wood sticks. "It's easy."
Is it, really? She wonders.
#
Damon hasn't stayed over. She didn't ask him to, he didn't either. It would be strange to spend the night watching movies and falling asleep together in a house that has no memories of Elena. She's scared of the ones they could make together in a place free of ghosts and obligations. She's scared of what she would go back to, once she's left this place and this town and people will look at them and see all the confines they are not supposed to cross.
If they ignore this thing long enough, she tells herself as she walks out of the bathroom, brushing her hair as she walks, it will go away. Just like that. She wants to believe it. It would make things easier.
When she lifts her eyes, she realizes she's in front of her window, and Elijah is in front of his, looking at her unabashedly. Naked, or at least as far as she can see. He's shirtless, she can detect the hem of the navy blue towel wrapped around his hips, his chest is broad, muscular, if she concentrates hard enough she can detect a few hairs on the upper part, read the tension in his lower muscles, and she would wonder if he's aroused if not from the way he looks at her.
Bonnie can feel the drumming of her heartbeat under her ribs, and the gentle, dull throbbing starting between her legs. Tonight, there's no other woman between them, acting like a surrogate for her, and she lingers under his gaze wishing she would be able to let go of all that holds her back. After all, she has an itch to scratch and Elijah would be the perfect man for the job. From the performances she's seen – and she's seen quite a few – he would be more than satisfying.
It doesn't hurt that he doesn't belong to anyone, there are no lines between them but the ones she decides to trace.
He's there, available and ready, and she would need to do very little to make him come to her.
Bonnie grabs the hem of her sleep shirt, pulls it up over her legs and her stomach, chickens out at last second turning away from the window the moment the fabric slides over her chest, and walks away to turn off the lights. Elijah can see the curve of her spine, how the delicate lace of her thong disappears appropriately to reveal the roundness of her ass as she walks out of his sight, and it is enough to drive him crazy.
#
They have a routine, his lovely neighbor and that friend of hers. They have established nights when he comes over and stays a few hours, not that he spies them, no, it's just that Elijah is naturally observant. The way a predator is.
It's a sort of occupational hazard for him. Elijah enjoys to hunts down things, and the way she escapes him it is both delicious and absolutely fucking maddening.
He builds his own routine around her schedule, to observe, to learn, to not let her forget that he wants her. To not let her forget that though maybe she's scared, though maybe she doesn't deem it a good idea, she wants him too.
So he works, or reads by the window as she's in her friend's company. Invites agreeable guests over when she's alone. Whispers in their ear just so that she'll know, she's delaying the inevitable.
#
Bonnie mmms in her wake as her heavy lids fly up to watch the time on the clock on top of her nightstand. It's 00:29 a.m. and she needs a glass of water, so she drags herself away from her comfortable bed to walk barefoot to the kitchen. The lights of the streetlamps and the fact that she's gotten used to the place make it easy to walk around without turning the lights on.
She massages the base of her neck as she goes, bends over her fridge to look for a bottle of water on the last shelf and takes a sip while keeping the door open. The light inside the fridge illuminates half her body as she stands there in her sleepshirt. When she closes the door she brings the bottle with her.
There is a soft light coming from Elijah's window. Her eyes, trained by the need to keep track of him (and the need to know what kind of man a vampire like him can become), can't help but find it immediately. And she stands there, fingers wrapped tightly around her bottle while Elijah's hold tightens about the neck of the woman pressed to his window. The woman's mouth falls open to let the air come through and her open palms press against the glass, but though it looks all so brutal, so ruthless, she doesn't look scared, more like enthralled. Her breasts are crushed against the glass with every thrust, her bra is dangling around her waist and Elijah is pumping behind her with a punishing rhythm.
Bonnie wonders if it's because she left him unsatisfied, a few nights before, when she backed out from his silent invitation. Bonnie wonders if that unforgiving assault is for her.
She thinks she saw him smirk at her for a moment, and her mouth is suddenly dry again.