Love Bites
by adlyb
Pairing: Klaus/Elena
Rating: R
Spoilers: Through season 4 of TVD
Warnings: Explicit sex, excessive bloodplay, angst, more angst, depression, canon-typical violence
Disclaimer: I own nothing except these words.
A/N: Just a short little holiday project. Daily small updates until finished.
Stefan's still determined to show her all of the best parts of being a vampire, despite the rough start they got off to.
They go rock climbing up the side of a sheer cliff face, and when they make it to the top, they watch the sun set before jumping screaming from the summit into the quarry of deep water hundreds of feet below. They swim for hours without tiring, the moonlight sparkling off the dark rippling surface as they splash through the icy waves.
He takes her to the National Symphony Orchestra in Washington DC. The vaguely familiar strains of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony pour into her ears and saturate her senses with a blend of warmth and bitter sorrow and pulsing longing in a way that she's never before experienced. She can hear each individual instrument—the warm vibrations of the cello, the higher resonance of the violin. The breath that whistles through the clarinets and flutes and transforms as it rushes out to fill the hall. The drums boom in her chest, and the horns knocks her senseless. Tears spring to her eyes as she hears as she has never heard before.
And in Mystic Falls, he takes her to his bedroom, the familiar, comforting nest of their love. What she'd said when she first turned, weeks and weeks ago now, is still true. When he touches her, no matter how lightly, how casually, her whole body feels ready to burst into flame.
The only problem is that they haven't yet had sex since her death.
It's not that she doesn't want to. It's just that there's something dissatisfying about all of it, and she has the sinking feeling that the real problem is that, despite Stefan's best and most sincere efforts, nothing he's offered her gives her the same vicious thrill as those stolen encounters with Klaus had done. It's like everything Stefan wants her to see and feel is meant to make her see her transformation as something wondrous, something that could spell their happily ever after and after and after if she could only find the strength to smile like she used to. The realization that she would rather give in to her new nature, that she would rather revel in her new strange appetites and instincts, would rather just be a vampire, makes her feel truly vile. It does not make her heart pound any less when she remembers what it had felt like to bury her teeth in him, though.
He sighs and pauses, rising from between her legs and resting his chin against her hipbone. His mouth is shiny from his efforts, but she has to admit that her mind has wandered.
It is very, very hard to feign enthusiasm when everything your lover does to you and for you never manages to elicit the same fervent response as it had before.
"You're not into this." He says it so gently, just a point of fact. She feels like a traitor for wishing he would be rough with her.
"Why don't we try something new?" she ventures.
He examines her face, seems to find something significant in her expression, though she cannot say what. "Okay."
He climbs up her body, all of that lean strength and those pale muscles on display in a way that used to make her knees weak.
All the fear's gone now that you're a vampire too, she thinks.
Why would she miss that?
Propped on his elbows right above her, their faces almost nose to nose, he asks her, words soft against her lips, "What were you thinking?"
She rolls her naked hips against his and feels him only half-hard against her. Going down on a cold fish must not be exciting for him, either.
"Let me bite you," she whispers in his ear.
Immediately, she can feel his interest in the way that his whole body freezes.
"Elena…" He trails off, doesn't need to continue because she already knows how that sentence is going to end.
"No, seriously. Let me bite you. You said it was pleasurable, right?"
He strokes his hand over her face. "If you bite me, you'll be giving into the darkest parts of your nature. I would rather you didn't have to face that." Even as he says these things, she can feel the intensity of his hunger jutting against her mons.
"I want to, Stefan. I want to be that close to you."
"You can't keep my blood down."
She wrinkles her nose for a minute, thinking of how she has paid each time she's consumed what Klaus offered her.
"That's not the point," she tells him finally. "Stefan. I want this. Please. If you want this too… Then let's."
He agrees—of course he agrees when she reveals how earnestly she wants this to be the thing that makes them—he and she—work.
He crawls up to the top of the bed, so that his back rests against the mound of silky pillows, and tugs her up with him, so that she's nestled in the crook of his arm. Everything about this moment is deliberate and tender, and when he nips into his wrist and offer it to her, the very room overflows, scented with his love for her, his regard and his hope and his yearning.
She takes hold of his wrist and bites deep, the motion natural to her, something she hopes he does not realize she has done more than once.
And it's good, it's really good, even if his blood is a little cooler, a little more watery, from the animal blood with which he mostly sustains himself.
Stefan's head tips back against the headboard. She steals a glance at his face, finds his eyes closed, lips parted. He moans, helplessly, when she fists his cock in her hand and begins pumping him at the same rhythm with which she drinks from him.
There's something very different about doing this with Stefan than there had been with either Klaus or Damon. Some piece that she expects to find, the one that makes her feel whole, but is instead missing from the composition. Perhaps it's because he is not in her direct lineage.
Actually, Stefan is like her uncle now.
The thought floats murkily in the background as she works him. At his urging, she grinds herself against the heel of his palm until she hits a small, rippling peak. A peak she only reaches because she envisages another lover driving her urgently on.
Later, when Stefan's jizz is splattered over her fingers, when he pulls her against him and kisses the flaking blood from the corners of her mouth, it's still that other lover on her mind.
That other lover, and the momentary relief she finds in his arms.
The contrast to every other nightmarish moment, dragging on before her into boundless, terrifying eternity.
If he were to be honest—and that is always a big if— were he to be honest, a whole series of who might it be's goes through his mind when he hears the furtive knock against the front door, each and every one of them more expected than Elena Gilbert, huddled under the glow from the porte-cochère lamps. Something seizes in his chest. He smashes the emotion before he can dare to name it.
By the time their eyes meet, he's already schooled his expression into that of bored disdain. "Come to beg something of me?" Perhaps she has crossed Rebekah again, and is in need of his aid. Surely he could turn that to his favor. Subtly, though. Better to play the knight than the debt collector.
"I can't take it anymore," she tells him.
Before he can inquire further, she launches herself at him. Leaps upon him, wrapping her arms around his neck and her long legs around his waist and tugging his face up to meet her own in a starved kiss. She devours him, laying waste to whatever petty retributions his pride may have demanded, to whatever reservations he might have been trying to dredge up these past few weeks, thin reminders of why he had vowed never to involve himself with another Petrova woman ever again. In turn, he crushes her to him and leans into her mouth to gather what honeyed caresses she might offer. He cannot help himself. He is helpless to her passion.
Whatever has changed since she fled from him the last time he saw her, the result is devastating. There is no hesitation in her. Only fire, in strange contradiction to the coolness of her skin.
She doesn't bite him this time, but she keeps on looking at him with that same intensity that had swept him up, captured his thoughts and his desires and turned them all around until this black-eyed girl lay at the heart of everything.
His most fervent wish is to do the same to her, to twist her round til she has no more room in her pretty little head for this Salvatore or that one. Only him.
They make it upstairs, somehow, their clothing shucked off and strewn in a pathway that leads from the grand stairs to the foot of his bed. His bed, which he knocks into backwards, blind and intoxicated on her kisses and the shape and weight of her, her bare skin and urgent embraces. No sooner does he stumble than she shoves him onto the mattress. She follows a blink later, climbing atop him and staring him down with all of those white sharp fangs on wicked display. Her hands trace his breastbone. He can feel the slickness of her desire against his groin where she straddles him.
Here, right at the last possible moment, she freezes—and he can see how this will play out if he lets it. She'll be up and out the door and then who knows how long he'll have to wait for his next opportunity. Who knows if he'll have another chance to see that sleek, enthralling vampire's smile again before he returns her to her mortal state.
He won't allow it.
Moving before she can slip one way or another on the knife's edge of uncertainty she so clearly dances upon, he grasps her by the hips, aligning her body with his own, and slides into her. Shock slips over her face. A shudder rolls through her body when he thrusts up into her, seating himself deeper inside of her. Elena moans for him, then, a surrender as clear as he has ever heard, and rolls her hips. Her fingers claw into his chest. Blood beads beneath her nails. Together, they search out a rhythm in that ancient, all-conquering of languages. Her cunt is slippery and cool, but she clenches him with a maddening grip that robs him of his reason. She looks him full-on in the face when she comes, eyes wide and liquid with a searching need that strips him to the bone. A few more thrusts into her rippling body has him toppling over the edge after her, coming helplessly beneath her.
She stays longer afterward than he would have ever credited that she might.
They lie side by side at the foot of his bed, faces turned toward each other, shoulders, arms, hips, and thighs only inches apart. Those inches, and an unimaginable distance between them. He is not so much a fool to think they have o'erleapt it in one evening.
"What am I to do with you?" he asks her.
"I don't know. I thought this might be the answer."
"Was it?"
"I don't know." She sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed. Bends to retrieve her knickers from the floor. Each of her ribs is visible along her sea-serpent's spine.
"You're coming back," he tells her. Tells her, because he is too afraid to ask.
She studies him over her shoulder.
He tries not to let anything at all show on his face.
"Yes," she tells him, finally.
Elena walks out the door that night. She comes back the next.
So begins their affair in earnest.
A/N: Thanks for reading!