Once Bitten by Angela Griffen Matt wants to be bitten. He craves it with an intensity that only things starting or ending with Elena ever provoke in him. He remembers the feeling of her teeth sinking into his neck, her hair brushing his collarbone. No one has touched him since. He's spent six months thinking about it, about teeth. Fangs. Not her teeth in particular, just any. It felt, still feels, almost like he's degrading her memory. She was more than some sexual fixation, but he's stuck on it, like instant reply on ESPN. The same play from every possible angle, in slow motion, with diagrams. Matt's spent the past six months thinking about teeth at night in his room until it's too much, and he has to throw back his sheets and wrap his hand around his cock. He's helpless to it. He's never come this much and this hard in his life, and it never gets old. Matt's fairly sure he's tempting fate, that this is somehow an open invitation to any restless spirits in the area, that his craving is as much as saying "come in," but he can't stop. That's the really scary thing. He cannot stop. There are very real, very dangerous vampires around now, and Matt's half-tempted to beg one of them, any one of them, all of them, to please just get it over with and sink their teeth in. He doesn't because it wouldn't be worth his time. Stefan won't drink human blood at all anymore, in deference to Elena. Matt admires his morals and wishes his own love for her had remained that pure. Stefan would just frown and shake his head, and not understand at all. That old vampire is- well, Matt isn't stupid. He isn't going to get himself killed by some undead fuck who's holding Elena's spirit hostage just because his dick thinks it's a good idea. He may be a jock, but he isn't Tyler Smallwood for God's sake. The other option is Damon, who, Matt thought, wouldn't have minded at all, would have loved it, would have lapped at his blood like cherry juice. Except... he didn't. It isn't like Matt hasn't tried. He's dared him, pushed him, he's offered, and Damon just looks at Matt like he's the stupidest person on the planet. Matt wants to ask, really ask. He wants to explain the whole thing to Damon, that he feels fangs puncturing the skin at his throat, his wrists, in his dreams, and when he wakes up, he's so hard he thinks he's going to scream. And really, while Matt knows an awful lot of vampires for someone who's still alive and only mildly neurotic, a lot more vampires than he knew last summer, he still doesn't know enough that his newfound fetish doesn't put a considerable damper on his sex life. It's easier, though, not to say anything. Easier to lie in bed and imagine. It's easier to pretend he's just playing with a fantasy and this isn't very real and very messed up. It's shocking how the images transfer from Elena to Damon so easily. Replace soft curves with taut muscle, and blonde waves with black feathers, and Matt knows that the old Matt would be freaking out about now, but at this point, his own sexual orientation is pretty low on the list of things to freak out about. Matt knows that where Elena whispered soft words in his ear, and held him like a child, Damon would only threaten and hold him like a rival, or a lover, and Matt just wants. He's shaking with it already, his mind apparently more of an erogenous zone than he'd previously thought, and he's tilting his head back, exposing his neck to a lover who doesn't even exist, and the bite, the sting of teeth would be so sweet- There's a clatter of pebbles at his window. Fuck, Matt thinks because his legs are still twitching involuntarily, his hands are shaking wildly, and he's reasonably erect. If he has to go battle evil in this state, he'll probably scream. He leans over the side of his bed to grasp blindly for his boxers when the second clatter of pebbles hits his window. If there is a single crack in that window- Matt's given up on being presentable beyond "not being buck naked" and pushes his curtains back. A dark shape, but no blond hair, so it isn't that evil old fuck, and it's too slim to be Tyler. The shape moves forward, and Matt can make out the face. Oh, that's just perfect, Matt thinks and marvels at Damon's impeccable dramatic timing. Matt unlatches the window and slides it open. "What do you want, Damon?" he asks. "I heard you," Damon says. "What?" "Just now. I heard you." Matt's stomach flips and his legs start shivering all over again. He can't mean- "Well? Invite me in?" Damon asks. "I-" Matt's mouth's gone dry. "I think I have." And when Damon climbs in the window just fine, Matt realizes he was right. He hopes fervently that he didn't accidentally invite in every vampire in a hundred mile radius. "What's going on?" Damon asks, immediately stepping into Matt's personal space, and Matt's torn between the urge to run screaming and the desire to just tilt his head back and say "please." Instead, he sucks in a breath and answers honestly, "I don't know." He wants to keep going, to tell him he's stuck and he can't get out of this place his mind's in, and if Damon would just please- Except Matt's forgotten one of the benefits of being a vampire is that people rarely have to actually tell you anything, and Damon's up close, too close, to Matt, breath cool on his neck, and the wrong amount of body heat from Damon is... right. Matt is a sick, sick puppy. "You want that?" Damon asks, mouth near his ear, which is so close to his neck, if he'd just move his damn mouth down. "Yes. yes." Matt says the word a few more times before he can stop his mouth from forming the words, and by then, Damon's backed him up to the bed, and pushes, lets Matt fall back before leaning over him. "Good," Damon says, and licks Matt's throat. Matt yelps because his tongue isn't cold exactly, but it definitely isn't warm, and fuck, he's already writhing with it, already tilting his head to expose his neck because pleasepleaseplease... "Matt, you are-" Damon doesn't finish the thought, but Matt doesn't care because he can feel. Damon's. fangs. He's so hard he'd be embarrassed if he didn't feel too good to care anymore. And then Damon's sinking his teeth in, and okay, okay, that fucking hurt, and Matt remembers that part, knows not to try to pull back, to just wait out that ripping sensation for a moment until it just becomes a warm tugging at his neck, and the feeling, Damon's feeling, of slowly being sated. Matt doesn't feel sated at all, feels like he should to do something, anything. He bites down on his lip hard because if he doesn't, he'll start begging. Matt keeps forgetting that Damon can sense his thoughts (dumb jock, he tells himself), but he doesn't mind too much because Damon's sliding a hand into the slit in Matt's boxers and pulling out his cock, jerking him hard and fast, and that feeling, that tugging at his neck is now in his veins, his dick. He's so hot, feels like he's going to burn up, and Damon's fingers are still a shocking coolness, his other hand not bothering to hold his body up anymore, sprawled atop Matt, fingers twining through his hair as he sucks at Matt's neck. Matt feels himself arching off the bed, fingers twisting Damon's black hair between them, pushing him harder to his neck. "Don't you dare fucking stop," Matt pants before he closes his eyes, and the tugging sensation finally pulls something loose and Matt comes hard in Damon's hand. Damon pulls back and laps lazily at Matt's neck, licking up the last few trickles of blood before pulling his hand, streaks of dripping semen along his fingers, to his mouth and licking them. "That," Matt says, "is needlessly erotic." Damon grins lazily at him, and gives his ring finger a final swab with his tongue. "What?" he asks, all false innocence. "The... finger thing," Matt answers. Damon's grin is less lazy this time. "You think I'm only doing this for you? You must have mistaken me for my brother." And in a flurry of black wings, Damon is gone. Matt gets up and shuts the window after shucking his boxers again, and he tries very hard not to think about what Damon might have meant by that. When he sleeps, he dreams of teeth.