Wish You Away 

Bonnie wouldn’t call what she does with Damon dating.

That would imply she actually desires his company, wonders about his thoughts and dreams, writes his name beside hers inside scribbled forever-hearts. He’s not as interesting or as smart as he thinks he is, and any mention of his name feels naked without bastard or asshole behind it. Plus he’s way too old for her. She realized that the day she found his record collection.

Records. As in vinyl.

"It goes both ways." He always gets defensive, prickly about the smallest criticism. She’s guessing Daddy issues, but doesn’t feel like asking for confirmation. "Your observations aren’t necessarily profound little girl."

"I’m in high school. I’m supposed to be shallow." She chooses Dusty Springfield because she reminds her of Duffy. "What’s your excuse?"

"I’m not shallow, I just actively don’t care. That’s not my record, its Stefan’s."

"I like it."

"Well, I don’t."

"Then I love it."

This is how it begins, with something as inconsequential as her choice in music becoming an endless push and pull of bitter sniping between them. There’s name calling, throwing things (that’s mostly her, things start flying if she’s pissed off enough), bending over, sucking his fingers while he fucks her against the couch. He whispers (you’re such slut for me Bonnie), wrenches her hair, drills her cunt until she comes and comes, while Dusty coos about fucking the son of a preacher man.

This is how it ends.

Somehow Damon’s become the high point of her days, especially after dealing with school and homework, chores and parental expectations. He doesn’t expect much of anything beyond a pair of good girl panties that cover most, if not all of her ass.

"Thongs are obvious." He pushes the cotton (usually white, sometimes pink if she’s feeling generous) inside her, runs his thumb up and down her slit until a deep, damp cleft forms along the crotch. "Everything’s just out there, isn’t it? Fucks up the anticipation."

It’s painful, frustrating—irritating beyond belief. She juts her hips from the bed, hopes that he’ll do it again. This is who they are together, him teasing—taunting and talking way too much, lecturing about things she could give a shit about. And her, resentful, petulant, hating herself for wanting this asshole—this vampire enough to play dress up for him. Here, she’s the quivering virgin, covering her body like it’s some shameful treasure he has to unearth for her.

"How’s that feel?" Damon says it softly, soothes her while shifting the panties around her clit. He knows how it feels, that she loves it—God, she loves it—but she answers because this is the game. It’s what he wants and all she wants—all she needs is more of him.

"It’s good."

"You like that?"

"Yes."

"Then say it."

"I love it—" Those hands, those fingers—rubbing—fuck—, "Oh God—I love it when you—touch me."

He dips his mouth, sucks the cotton against his tongue. She’ll do anything he wants now.

(fuck him, bite him, let him bleed her dry.)

Anything.

They don’t like each other. At all. Which makes conversation tedious and a bit hurtful at times (he’s only made her cry once, but she held it in until he was gone).

But the SEX. IS. AMAZING. She’s become that kind of girl, the one she and Caroline would whisper about after gym class. That girl who’s aware. Her body doesn’t move, it flexes and gyrates down the hall, as if her entire personality has been whittled down to a pair of tits and ass.

She regrets those bitchy little comments now; they seem short-sighted and hypocritical. It wasn’t like she was a virgin before Damon; that ship sailed in the backseat of Ricky Smith’s Old Chevy. Ricky, who’s dead now, found floating in the river.

Damon swears it wasn’t him, that he doesn’t care, but he lies. Bonnie drops the issue, she can’t change what happened.

She doesn’t mention her past again.

He likes fucking in cars, something she attributes to a lingering fondness for the 50s. Especially drive-ins.

"Dark lots, parked cars, all that sexual frustration?" He’s wistful, sadly nostalgic. "I fed for days some times. You have no idea how it feels, all that blood pumping, those beautiful heartbeats—and that’s just from dry humping alone."

"It’s uncomfortable," Bonnie argues from the warm sheets of his bed, where there’s no stick shift, no low ceiling to slam her head against. "And risky, what if we get caught?"

"You’ll be too busy to get comfortable. And we won’t get caught."

"Because we’re not doing it."

He smiles and takes this, like everything else between them, as a challenge. And he’s right (though she’ll never admit that), the woods are so deserted that they don’t see anyone for hours. It’s long enough for him to make her forget about the stick shift, the awkward bend of her knees, that painful bite of the steering wheel pressed against her back. They keep their clothes on, hands slipping against foggy windows and rub, back and forth (harder sweetheart), frantic for more friction between them.

"Touch it." He’s playing now too, the horny jock to her nubile cheerleader. "Touch me Bonnie."

She can see it now, the milkshakes, the sock hops, the guilty furtive groping. There’s an intense rush as she jerks him, an electric thrill that makes her generous and slide down his lap without prompting. Bonnie laps his cock, sucks salt from his skin with a relish reserved for cake beaters and ice cream cones. She loves his groans, his flexing thighs, the shallow thrusting of his hips. He cards his fingers through her hair, grateful when he releases inside her mouth.

Damon’s smug afterwards; tossing out an "I told you so" that completely ruins the moment. She should’ve known it wouldn’t last. The bastard can’t help himself.

…

"You can’t tell anyone."

She just misses Elena coming out of Stefan’s bedroom and spends twenty minutes in the spare bathroom, waiting for them to leave. Damon just laughs; she’s always so fucking funny to him.

"I mean it." She knows he held them up on purpose, asked them questions about some stupid diary while she crouched on the toilet. "I swear to God."

"Oh, now don’t open that can of worms." She dodges his grasp, but he reaches out again, faster this time and circles her waist, "I like it when you pout."

"I’ll kill you."

"No, you won’t."

"I will set you on fire."

"No." He kisses her. "You won’t."

"Please, Damon."

That kills the smile, makes him serious.

"Fine." He gives a don’t give a shit shrug that she doesn’t quite believe. It’s better than nothing.

…

She hates it when they fight.

It’s not their usual back and forth, you’re a jerk, you’re a bitch kind of argument. She’s used to that, it’s comfortable. Just one more thing she can count on.

It’s the times he shows up in her bedroom and watches her while she’s sleeping. He stands beside her, panting, still hungry despite reeking of fresh blood. She doesn’t scream. She’s never been a screamer, but she stops breathing for a while.

"Whose blood is that?" Not her parents. Please God, don’t let it be her mother this time. He doesn’t answer; he’s too drunk with lust and blood to hear her. Now he’s just a vampire.

She stops his approach with a flick of her hand and slams his body against her dresser.

Now she’s just a witch.

He’ll never say he’s sorry and she’ll never ask him to. He doesn’t owe her anything.

They’re not a couple. Lord knows they’re not dating. But he’s always different afterwards, slower. He slides into her with the kind of care that makes her almost think he’s human.

"Taste you." His words are fragmented, clumsy while he fucks her. "Bonnie—." Like a child, begging with the only ones he can manage. This is when she gives in, lets him drink from her. One more thing that’s becoming normal, more comfortable the longer she stays with him.

She feels his teeth, that prickly pain, his tongue laving across her skin. He swallows in audible deep gulps that match the slow thrust of his hips. This is when she falters, when she almost doesn’t hate him because he needs her so much. She tightens her legs, rides him—gives him life.

"Bonnie."

It won’t always be like this.

He’s smirking again, sarcastic with his don’t give a shit shrugs. She should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

The bastard can’t help himself.