You Won't Let Me Sleep 

Stefan bites into his wrist and tastes blood, coppery and deceptively warm. He presses it against her mouth to fix what Damon’s broken. Bonnie’s struggles excite him in that old, careless way that he’s always been ashamed of. It’s been years since he’s felt teeth scraping against his skin, the wet pull of a woman’s lips suckling an open wound. He wants to close his eyes, revel in this. But Elena’s here, watching while he plays the hero.

He’ll look her in the eye and lie. He does this believing he won’t see her—either one of them again. He’s leaving this town and taking Damon with him—they’ll all heal faster this way.

Bonnie moans and struggles. She’s watching him too. She’s inside him, all over his skin. Now he can feel her.

…

Stefan killed a man on August 16th, 1967. He killed another a week later, both homeless predators to those who unfortunately cross their path. Their fear was palpable and putrid when mixed with unwashed flesh. They called him demon, and because they were breath away from hell, he didn’t correct them. He covered them with torn blankets they’d left lying in the street and walked away with fresh blood pumping through his veins. He regrets occasionally, but not often. His brother’s right, some things are too small, too beside the point to carry for long. But he always remembers.

Bonnie whispers (Jacob), while she tosses and turns that night because Stefan remembers their names. Every single one.

…

They play pool a few weeks later because Elena wants to try again. He’s back to pretending. He’ll be normal for her. It’s an old game, one that he’s always been better than Damon at playing, but it’s become slightly impossible whenever Bonnie sits beside him. She laughs like nothing happened, like it hasn’t changed between them. It’s a lie. Their hands touch briefly, just a glancing of fingers and he wants shake her, because it’s all a fucking lie.

"So I’m headed for the jukebox." Elena stands up, smiles. She’s happy. "Any requests?"

Bonnie says, "Eric," just before he manages "Clapton." He glances at her, well aware of her love of hip hop and Lady Ga Ga.

Elena’s delighted, "You guys like the same music!"

Bonnie leans over as soon her friend leaves the table, her whisper’s fast and angry. "Who the fuck is Eric Clapton?"

"Some people say he’s God."

She frowns, "Is this funny to you? What the hell did you do to me?"

He leans in too, "I saved your life." They’re closer than they should be, but still linger, reckless. Elena comes back humming the tune to "Layla."

"It’s broken." She says, disappointed.

"Good." Bonnie slides to the edge of her seat. She puts as much distance between them as possible.

…

"You let a witch drink from you." Damon’s happier when Stefan’s suffering and says this with a large amount of glee. "Dumbass."

"I did it to—"

"You did it to save her, it’s all my fault, bullshit, bullshit, I’ve heard this already." He leans in. "She’s getting stronger. It should have worn off by now."

 "I know." The entire room smells like amber; she must have bathed in it this morning. "It has to stop."

Damon shakes his head; he’s actually serious this time. "It won’t, not ‘til the blood is gone—you know that Stefan."

She hasn’t called him yet (she has no idea—her power’s ripping him apart, driving him insane and she has no fucking clue) but she will. She has to.

He’s part of her now.

…

They’re half-way through the movie when Elena loses interest. Stefan changes the channel to an infomercial and turns up the volume. Electric beaters whirl on screen while her breasts rub against him.

She likes the idea that he’s noble, that he’ll wait for her and he does nothing to correct or push her away. She whispers and teases, and he won’t do that, no matter how wrong it all feels, because it’s temporary. He doesn’t want her now, but he will when it’s over. He’s almost sure of it.

"I think I’m ready." It’s soft and breathy, said at the tail end of a giggle. He plays with a strand of her hair and wants someone else.

"I’m not."

…

He doesn’t sleep at all anymore, though the concept of vampires and sleep is complicated. Rest is a less morbid description. Little death is probably more accurate. But the time spent in his bed is fitful while she’s out there, awake, and thinking about him. Her thoughts prick at his skin; his hands always feel empty. (Bonnie licks her lips; brushes back her hair) Phantom strands tangle and glide across his cheek.

Stefan rolls over and presses his face against the pillow. He’s petulant, resentful when he fists his cock. This is what she’s reduced him to. (Bonnie chews her pencil, watches the teacher write equations on the chalkboard and her panties cling, mold themselves to her cunt when she crosses and uncrosses her legs)

Stefan thumbs the head of his cock (She breathes in soft, quick bursts against the eraser) and moves back and forth with hard strokes. He loses himself, not just in phantom touches or flashes of heat, but in the knowing. He fists his shaft with slick, fast jerks and knows she can feel him too.

Stefan juts his hips from the mattress (into you); fucking into air, while his other hand flexes and reaches out for her. His grip’s almost painful (the pencil snaps in her hand) and rips the pillow, he comes groaning her name, tasting cherry flavored lip-gloss.

(Bonnie covers her moans with a cough and asks to be excused. She’s not feeling well today.)

…

"She liked hurting you."

Bonnie knows about Katherine, she knows everything about him now. He can’t lie to her.

"Yes."

"And you enjoyed it?"

A beat and then, "I think I—yeah, sometimes I did."

She touches his hand because it feels inevitable. Everything does now. "Because it made you feel alive?"

He curls his fingers against hers. "This makes me feel alive."

…

He’s not strong enough to fight this. He never has been.

…

One minute he’s with Damon and the next there’s night, stars and wet grass beneath his fingers. Her nightgown is white and thin, it feels fragile against his fingers. He’ll rip it apart eventually. It’s bunched around her waist, a stark cloud against her skin.

He’s gone. Fanged and hissing against her neck, there’s no Elena anymore, no caveats or hesitation. Her vein pulses beneath his tongue (please) the beats wild and erratic (not yet). He’s hungry—fuck that, he’s starving. Bonnie kisses his temple, placates him with soft whispers while she ruts back and forth in his lap. She’s bare and shaven, (wet—soaking wet and sliding against his cock) taunting him because he’s so fucking close. One thrust and he’ll be inside her, but he waits—he begs—and he waits. (not yet).

Bonnie slides her finger inside his mouth and pricks her skin on an elongated incisor. She flinches when he latches on and sucks like a greedy, disobedient child. Her blood’s thick and coats his mouth, and she presses her lips against his ear when she moans. It’s that raspy, desperate sound that breaks him. She’s not herself anymore.

There’s no hint of that sweet, flirty girl he barely noticed, now she’s glorious, volatile, relentless (you love this) witch daring him to fuck her. He shoves her down, shreds her back against rocks when he finally fucks into her. He drags their bodies back and forth, braces his hand on the ground for leverage when licks her neck, ghosts his teeth across her skin.

He takes her blood, sucks long and hard while he fucks in and out, erratic, frantic, inhaling through his nose while she courses down his throat. (you love me). Bonnie lolls her head back when she comes; he kisses her (yes) Grateful, her mouth is copper and cherries and sweet—

--so sweet—

…

He makes her forget when it’s over and he’s finally left her system. Bonnie mentions strange dreams in passing, but her wounds are healed. She’s happy now; her smile’s light and easy.

He won’t take that from her again.