Author: Sky Samuelle
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries
Summary: Pre- Haunted, Damon stalks Bonnie even inside her dreams. Here’s a possible alternate explanation on why he looked so regretful after tearing her throat out.
Spoilers: vague spoilers for season 2, up to 2.11.
AN: Written for Kivajayelle at the Five Acts Meme for her Acts n2 and n3.
It always starts the same way: she will grow aware of a slight pressure on the surface of her mind and then something… something invasive, strange and dark breaking in, like a thief in the night. In the morning she will remind herself that it’s just Grams’ lessons going to her head and Stefan’s older brother popping up everywhere she goes lately, like he is stalking her. No one is stalking her and nobody can truly invade her dreams. If Damon Salvatore gives her chills, it’s because she knows how he used and abused Caroline.
Yet it feels like there’s more. That icy coldness that delves inside her dreamscape and surrounds her in the shape of a thick fog, it feels like it’s a living, menacing thing, chasing after her.
In her dreams she is always running, as fast her legs can carry her, through the woods, always knowing she will never go fast enough to escape…him. The dreams always end on the same line of the same page, but there’s no comfort in the predictability of the scheme. When she cuts through the mists they feel nearly solid, like a buttery caress that seeps through her clothes to imprint its mark on her skin, crawling down her back and from her shoulders to her arms.
The foreign, greedy thing chasing her always enjoys every moment of her escape. She can taste his excitement with every ragged breath she takes and when the vice finally closes around her waist or ankle, it’s almost a relief. She is pinned down on the moist, musk-smelling ground in a matter of seconds and that’s when she sees him.
That pale angular face has an unnatural, alien stillness to it, and those eyes shine a metallic blue in the darkness. The smile on those well-shaped lips is both cruel and complacent, always.
His body is covering hers without brushing and the distance between their flesh is paper-thin, making her ever more aware of the compromising intimacy of their position. She has never been so close to a man before.
“Are you frightened of me, baby bird?” he says, purring out those words in a tone that colors them both gloomy and seductive. It sounds like something long practiced.
“Should I be?” she answers, raising her chin defiantly, refusing to be intimidated although he is pretty intimidating.
His smile twitches, nearly becomes genuine for a few seconds before cooling again – he likes when she fights back.
“I like you, Bonnie,” he voices smugly, tilting his head like a bird, his thumbs slowly stroking her inner wrists. “But you should really give that necklace back. Bad things happen to good girls who get in the way of evildoers.”
“Fuck you,” she hisses, hating every single thing that makes up Damon Salvatore, even if she barely knows him.
The man smirks, something behind his eyes going very still and then jolting back to life, in way that makes him look inherently insane. The serial-killer brand of insane, that is.
“Oh, yes,” he promises, nodding like he is accepting an offer she has inadvertently laid out. Except, somewhere inside she knew it was going to come to this, even before his hand grabs the collar of her pajama shirt and rips it open. He holds her down firmly as he tears off the rest of her clothing, yet there’s a certain carefulness in his grasp, like he knows exactly how easy she is to break.
She has no idea how or why or when his clothing melted away, but he is as naked as she is, the shadows of the forest alternately hiding and revealing the ivory perfection of his upper body.
She looks at him with huge, unafraid eyes before beginning to struggle to get up, to free herself from the cage of his arms.
It’s embarrassingly useless since Damon unabashedly releases her hands just to grasp her hips and lay her on the ground again. Bonnie hates the heat of his mouth over her throat, her nipples, her collarbone and shoulders. It burns her and it feels too much like a brand. She hates the heat inside her too – that dark, sharp, and needful ache pulsating between her legs and in her breasts.
It doesn’t make sense: she despises him, and he doesn’t know her at all, but feeling her skin against his sparks a blunt awareness of everywhere they are touching inside.
“I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you at the fair,” he hums in her ear, just before nibbling and suckling on her earlobe, and he’s sliding down against her, covering her and smothering her with twin feelings of rage and need.
His palms glide over her buttocks, cupping and parting her, forcefully but gently, enough that he could dive deep inside her in one smooth stroke.
There’s nothing rough about the way Damon thrusts in and out of her. He fucks her with deliberate, long, deep strokes, grasping her face with tender-like care between his index and thumb, constantly making sure that she is looking up, straight at his face, to not miss a second of the wanton satisfaction she can easily read there.
In truth, it is not even occurring to her to look away. The manner his arrogantly beautiful features twist in licentious delight, the dark flame behind his cobalt eyes mesmerize.
She is panting loudly in the night, suddenly tempted to wrap her legs around his.
Bonnie clams her mouth shut instead, unwilling to let him hear any evidence of what she is feeling. The man above her makes a sound in between a snarl and chuckle.
“Not like that, witch. I want to hear every gasp and whimper.”
Anger brightens her gaze at that condescending, arrogant command that demeans her and yet hungers her at the same time. There’s a flicker of panic and an increasing sense of exposure at the idea that this semi-stranger knows who she is, and Bonnie shakes, closes her eyes against the rush of alarm to confirm her indifference to the orders he assumes he can give her.
“Stubborn, loyal, insolent little fool,” he drawls huskily, lips skimming over her cheeks and chin before pressing roughly over her mouth. It doesn’t quite sound like an insult, but his tongue traces and tastes the line of her closed lips, the skin of her jaw and chin. His thrusts are deeper and slower now, and they make her dizzy with a desire to force him to speed up.
He stops abruptly, and she doesn’t know how to feel. He molds her breasts in his hands and hefts each globe, bouncing them briefly.
“So innocent and sweet and bright on the outside, yet so dark and fiery and biting on the inside… you are such an entertaining little treat. I love it, baby.”
Her eyes jolt open again when she feels fingers between their joined bodies, thumbing her clit in circles.
The heat in her belly coils tighter and tighter, becoming impossible to deny, and looking again into Damon’s eyes, she feels even more helpless toward what is coming, lost, and she knows he knows it.
He is watching her with a rapt sort of concentration, like he is burning every detail of her downfall into his mind, and she can’t stop him from looking at her when she is spiraling down, at her most vulnerable…
And so she breaks, feels her lips disclose a moan as the inevitable orgasm rips through her. He is unmoving and firm, lodged so deep inside her, and it feels good in ways she can’t articulate.
Her walls begin fluttering around him, milking him as he refuses to budge and it’s not even humiliating anymore to feel his eyes on her all the fucking time; he refuses to budge and fuck her properly. There’s only this poignant frustration of not having enough and it feeds the burning inside until she is coming apart at the seams, vocalizing her surrender with a startled cry.
Damon smiles slowly and kisses the corner of her mouth when she comes back from her high, blatantly pleased with both himself and her.
“Now, little witch, was that not as wonderful for you as it was for me?” he murmurs silkily against her temple, drawing back and bending her right knee upward, withdrawing from her slowly and almost completely.
Bonnie doesn’t answer, just pants hard as she again feels the sense of danger and negativity that wraps itself around this man’s aura. It’s not evil exactly, but the casual, easy ferocity she senses lurking behind his beautiful surface makes her skin crawl while her sex weeps in loss.
Damon’s fingers slap her engorged nub with a bruising roughness that falls into a softer pace at traits.
“You looked dazzling when you came for me, pretty and fragile and so not pure. Not so unattainable after all. Give me more, Bon. Get all wet for me again.”
The way his lips wrap around her name, shortening it, turning it into a curse word, spreads that unstoppable warmth in her blood once more. The rougher he touches her there, the more he keeps his dick from penetrating her as deeply as before, and the more she squirms.
“No,” she says to herself, not to him, because the way her body responds to him is not acceptable.
“Yes,” he contradicts her, taunting as his cock sinks in balls-deep again, her head lolls back and she feels a sinful pleasure building up again at the sliding of his cool skin over the sweaty heatedness of hers, and the jagged, fast pace that is just picking up.
She squeezes him hard between her thighs, feeling half-avenged and half-unsettled when he groans in appreciation. Her eyes are tearing up in aggravation…it feels so good, and it is not supposed to. It also doesn’t feel like enough – Damon keeps pulling out as soon as he reaches that most hidden, moist recess of her body, and it’s so, so frustrating. She needs him to stay there just a bit longer, just a bit slower, but she will never ask for that openly. That would be like admitting she is enjoying this.
The sounds she is making are bad enough, but they are out of her control, whimpers and mewls that escape before she realizes and paint that smug grimace on his face.
“Again,” he growls, and there’s a moment where this command is not a command at all. He sounds just as out of control as she feels, twisting and pinching her clit until there’s no holding back. The ecstasy of that little pain mingling in with her lust is heady and she falls into that magnificent delirium again. She is nothing but desire and pleasure and hyper-aware senses.
It’s not the last time she loses herself to that beautiful, damning release. Damon’s tongue, cock and fingers bring her there many times before he is done with her.
And when she wakes, drenched in sticky sweat, her pajama shirt pasted to her back, the covers too heavy on her heated body, she is angry and mournful, shivering with need. Her flesh is tingling; her forehead is beaded with sweat and clenching her legs shut only worsens the throbbing wetness between her thighs. Her hands stay inert by her sides until they sneak there, seeking the proof of just how tainted she is, with her over-sensitized flesh flaming at the memory of a man she barely knows.
Her underwear is drenched, her nub thrumming with arousal as too vivid images from her dream flash through her mind. The sound of his voice still echoes in her ears; the words playing back, his voice like venom laced honey:
“I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you at the fair.”
She thinks back to the first time Caroline formally introduced them, the way his eyes checked her out lingeringly – right in front of his girlfriend - before they sought hers and held on. She saw an all encompassing coldness and greed in those ice eyes that were both pleased at and dismissive of the sight of her.
From the very first moment, she has been determined to dislike him. At the fair, meeting him solo, she had seen only the bully who had torn Caroline’s self-esteem apart. It didn’t make a difference that his shirt was so tight and his chest so well-defined, she had not felt any attraction to him.
She has never been the kind of girl who told off arrogant, spoiled bullies just to turn around and secretly daydream about them. So what is she doing, dreaming about that asshole, slightly stroking the wetness that stains her panties while the picture of his condescending smirks lingers somewhere in her memory?
Ashamed and furious with herself, Bonnie throws off the covers and takes off her pj top, dropping it on the floor. Her pants and ruined underwear go the same way, and when she is sitting on her bed, dangling her bare legs off the edge, the one thought in her head is that she can’t stand being in such a state due to the likes of Damon Salvatore. She needs this madness out of her body.
She guides her hand to her soaking center, parting her folds to drive two fingers harshly inside. It hurts a little, being stretched so roughly, but it’s the sort of pain she can welcome as a fair punishment for her traitorous fantasies.
Safe in the knowledge she is the one occupant of her house tonight, she tosses her head back and moans noisily, half-disgusted and half-turned on by the shrill wantonness of the sound.
Something clanks loud against the glass of her window just as Bonnie is clenching her eyes closed and pushing deeper, hoping to free herself from this fever once for all.
The young witch turns her head toward the window, alarmed… but it’s just a stupid, large crow, sitting on her window sill and croaking. If the animal knew the heart attack he almost caused her.
Bonnie takes a breath of relief and does a scissoring motion with her fingers, encouraged to go rough by the fresh wave of self-loathing induced by the inescapable truth of her increasing want.
She can still feel him, around her, inside her, like he is right there. Real, not a fantasy.
The damn crow croaks again, louder, and if she was in the mood to think, she would think it looks like the bird is trying to catch her attention.
As it is, Bonnie just tilts her head instinctively toward him, with a lopsided, sarcastic smirk on her lips.
So this is where this world has led me – to being spied by a creepy bird while I masturbate, after having a wet dream about a man I despise. God, being a witch truly messed me up.
Her fingers dive deeper, faster with that thought, and despite the weirdness of it she is still staring in the general direction of her feathered voyeur when she cums violently, the phantom feeling of Damon’s caresses on her breasts still very present.
She mouths his name in the otherwise silent room, a reasonless feeling of being haunted flaring up at the edges of her conscious, and that’s when the crow flies away in a noisy rush.
That is the last night she has a shamelessly erotic dream about Damon Salvatore and the last time she sees any dark-winged, large birds hovering close to her house. In the following days, Bonnie will be relieved. She will pass off those nightly, too vivid occurrences as the result of too much stress and too much repressed anger.
Then she will find out that vampires are real, and she’ll learn of what they can do in general, what Damon Salvatore used to do in particular.
Then she will feel enraged and very willing to forget.
Those nights of low-keyed violence and unwilling lust become a secret that lingers, unspoken and seemingly forgotten, between her and Damon. That secret will fuel her loathing of him and will keep him from hating her, even when her anger will become a threat to his life and his interests.
But every time their eyes will clash during an argument or a chilly exchange of words, they will both remember that, before Elena ever mattered to him and before Katherine failed him, there was Bonnie Bennett, what he had repeatedly taken from her, and how she had repeatedly responded to it.
They will both want to dismiss it, but that old heat that will lick at the surface of their skin from deep within will make any dismissal impossible and every denial temporary.